


Evangelist

by emmbrancsxx0



Category: Supernatural
Genre: ALSO!! the megstiel is not explicit!, Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bartender Dean Winchester, Bisexual Dean Winchester, Bottom Dean Winchester, Break Up, Castiel's Family is Rich (Supernatural), College, College | University Student Castiel (Supernatural), Corporate Espionage, Demisexual Castiel (Supernatural), Drinking, Drug Use, Drunken Flirting, Drunken Kissing, Drunkenness, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fire, Frat Parties, Friends to Lovers, Gambling, Homophobia, Hurt Castiel (Supernatural), Hurt Dean Winchester, Jealous Castiel (Supernatural), Jealous Dean Winchester, M/M, Mechanic Dean Winchester, Minor Character Death, Mutual Pining, Near Death Experiences, Poker, References to Abuse, References to Depression, References to Drugs, Rich Castiel (Supernatural), Roman Catholicism, Secret Relationship, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Slow Dancing, Student Castiel (Supernatural), Top Castiel (Supernatural), Top Castiel/Bottom Dean Winchester, Underage Drinking, a frankly ridiculous amount of references to abraham lincoln vampire hunter, down with capitalism tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-19
Updated: 2019-12-28
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:14:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 334,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21627415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmbrancsxx0/pseuds/emmbrancsxx0
Summary: In Lawrence, the Novak family owns more than god. Castiel is expected to graduate with a business degree, become a community leader, meet a nice girl, and one day help run the family business, Evangelist, Inc. Then he meets Dean Winchester, who vehemently opposes everything Evangelist stands for. When Dean’s need for cash to pay the bills leads him down a risky path, both he and Castiel learn there may be more to Evangelist than philanthropy and good will.
Relationships: Castiel & Dean Winchester, Castiel/Dean Winchester, Castiel/Meg Masters, Dean Winchester/Lisa Braeden (brief), Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester, Sam Winchester/Jessica Moore (past)
Comments: 462
Kudos: 424
Collections: The Destiel Fan Survey Favs Collection





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! This is my first deancas au that doesn't even remotely take place in canon. . . which is weird considering how long I've been in this fandom. Anyway, hope you enjoy! I had fun writing it.
> 
> If you're into that kind of thing, you can check out the [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2ZfOm3EJa0Mx1MG2WCi2d1) I made for this fic. And you can come say hi to me on [tumblr](https://dochollidayed.tumblr.com/). (I don't take criticism, only glowing praise) (jk)
> 
> Big thanks to Dee for being my beta! Big thanks to all of you in advance for reading!

Something soft and stinging hit him in the face. It still smelled of petrichor from the weather outside. Fabric and buttons. It slid down off his nose and pooled in his lap to reveal Balthazar standing in front of the opened closet and proclaiming, “Put your coat on, darling. We’re going out!”

Castiel picked up his trench coat and folded it neatly before placing it back on his knees. He didn’t want it to get wrinkled. He put his pencil in the margins of his textbook in case Balthazar was planning on throwing anything else at him and causing him to lose his place. Then, he set the book down on the coffee table next to the pile of mail. Sitting atop it was a letter from New York, a distracting and mind-occupying presence, which Castiel hadn’t the heart to open yet.

“I’d rather not.”

A loud, prolonged, and particularly dramatic groan sounded from across the room. “Oh, come _on_ , Castiel! Save your homework for another night.”

Castiel opened his mouth to protest. It wasn’t homework, per se, but he was studying. It was only a few weeks into the semester, and he wanted to get a jumpstart on his classes. However, Balthazar put up a finger and cut him off before he could even draw in adequate breath to speak.

“A night that isn’t your birthday—or a Saturday night, for that matter. Honestly, Cassie, you’re depressing me. I’m depressed.”

This is what he got for rooming with a drama major for the third year in a row. Castiel supposed this was his own fault.

Balthazar crossed the room and flung himself to his knees next to the couch where Castiel was sitting. “Please. I beg of you. If you won’t do it in a last ditch effort to salvage your social life, then do it for me.”

Castiel turned his eyes heaven-bound for strength. Outside, the mid-September rain was beating against the window, frigid droplets cascading down the dark glass. It was warmer inside, and he didn’t want to spend his night having to be social. But maybe Balthazar was right. It was their third year of college and Castiel could probably count on one hand how many parties he’d actually gone to for longer than an hour.

His sister was always telling him to get out more. And his brothers kept saying he needed to “network.”

The semester would only get more difficult as it went on, and that’s when his studies would require his attention. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to go to a party. If anything, it would appease Balthazar.

“Fine,” he huffed, shutting his textbook with his pencil still in the margins and standing up before he could change his mind.

“Oh, goodie!” Balthazar exclaimed, getting to his feet. “I know just the place. A charming little bar not far from here.”

“A bar? But—.” He scrunched his nose in thought. He’d been expecting a house party. “But I’m twenty. We’re not even legal yet.”

That fact didn’t seem to faze Balthazar in the slightest. “I assure you, neither is the bartender. This place is notorious for letting in underage patrons. Besides, what are you worried about? Being arrested? Doesn’t your family own the police?”

“I—No . . .” He didn’t know how true that was.

“We’ll be fine. Now, let’s go. No wait—good God, you’re not wearing _that_ , are you?”

Castiel looked down at his clothes, a white button up, a tie, slacks, and a blazer. It was a variation of his normal look. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

“Well, nothing, for appearing in Senate. Not for drinks.” He took Castiel by the arm and led him towards his bedroom. “Poor thing. Let me help you. Then, we can go.”

Castiel wanted to sigh again, but he refrained. This idea was becoming less appealing by the minute.

///

The bar was a fifteen-minute walk from Castiel’s apartment. Thankfully, the rain had let up, leaving only stray droplets to shake off the trees that lined the sidewalk in short gusts of wind. There was a line of college students outside the door of the modest two-story building with the name _Harvelle’s_ in pinkish neon lights above the door. Some rock and roll song was playing inside, so loud that the tremors reverberated throughout the pavement under Castiel’s feet.

Once they got to the line, Balthazar slapped an ID into Castiel’s hand and told him to show it to the bouncer. Castiel studied it. It was still a Kansas driver’s license, just like his real one, and his name was correct down to the letter—Castiel James Emmanuel Novak. The only differences were his home address and, most significantly, his age. According to the ID, he was 22 years old.

As they approached the head of the line, Castiel’s throat began to close and his chest tightened, and Balthazar’s casual nonchalance wasn’t helping. However, it was all for nothing because the bouncer barely glanced at their IDs before permitting them inside.

The room was packed densely with college students, the majority of them crowded around the bar vying for drinks. As soon as Castiel stepped inside, it was like he’d hit a wall of humidity, and he estimated the temperature of the bar versus outside had risen at least five degrees.

It was an old-style bar—wooden tables and chairs; scuffed floorboards; photos of patrons drinking, light-up beer logos, and rock paraphernalia on the walls; a ripped pool table and a darts board which currently had a picture of Donald Trump, battered with holes, taped over the bullseye. The jukebox in the corner of the room played a fast-paced rock song that Castiel didn’t know, but it was significantly more deafening inside than it was outside. He wondered how anyone could hold a conversation in there, which was probably why everyone was shouting, their voices mixing and adding to the indistinguishable drone of the others.

Balthazar pushed to the front of the bar somehow, and Castiel did his best to keep up but he was too jostled and couldn’t squeeze close enough to the counter. Two beers were ordered, and Balthazar handed one to him, shouting, “My gift to you. Happy birthday, Cassie!”

Castiel gulped it down, hoping the frothy, bitter taste would cool him off, and the buzz it brought with it would lessen his nerves about the hoards of people closing in on him from all sides.

“Next round’s on your brother, courtesy of that credit card he’s given you,” Balthazar told him with a laugh.

As the night went on, Balthazar found a group of people to talk with at one of the crowded tables along the wall. He said he’d be back in a few minutes, but that had been over an hour ago. Castiel was still at the bar. His hands were wrapped around his second beer of the night, glass still mostly full and damp with condensation that chilled his fingers. It was nice, actually, the cold. The rest of him was flush with heat radiating off the masses of people squeezing past him as they moved back and forth along the crowded bar. He kept getting knocked into and he didn’t like it. No one even said “excuse me” or apologized.

He wanted to go home.

Pushing his beer to the side, he started to get up from the stool, but the bartender took that very second to come over and ask, “You need another one? Must’a been pretty interesting the way you were looking into it and all, but it’s probably warm by now.” The man had to shout over the music and the background chatter pressing in around them.

Castiel only half-glanced at him as he pulled his wallet out. The bartender was probably looking for a tip. “No. I was just leaving.”

“Why, ‘cause your friend ditched you?”

That got Castiel’s attention. He looked up, offended and a little surprised at the man’s candor. Was he mocking him? But his thoughts eased when he took in the bartender’s face. He was handsome—or, well, more than handsome. Castiel didn’t know if he’d ever seen such symmetrical features. There was a smattering of freckles on his nose and cheeks that were apparent even in the low light of the bar. He was grinning a slanted, teasing smirk, and his eyes shone with it.

But there was something . . . _warm_ about him.

The bartender crossed his arms and leaned into the bar. “He _is_ your friend, right? He comes in here a lot, usually with different people every time.” He nodded in Balthazar’s direction. Castiel looked over just in time to see the laughing crowd part long enough to see his roommate.

“Yes,” Castiel admitted. “Balthazar is . . . very sociable.”

The bartender snorted, barely trying to abort his laughter. “ _Balthazar_? He told me his name was Elton John. Figured it was fake, but _Balthazar_? Really? Jeez.” Perhaps it was the noise around them, but Castiel couldn’t quite pinpoint the bartender’s accent. It was American, and it might have even been local, but there was something about it that sounded like he was from out of town.

Castiel knitted his brows together in curiosity. He understood that Balthazar was an atypical name but, “Why would you think Elton John was fake? It seems like a believable name.”

“Yeah, maybe for Rocketman.”

That only furthered Castiel’s confusion. He squinted at the bartender, wondering what he was referencing and why he thought it was universal. The bartender seemed equally perplexed after a moment; Castiel could see it written on his face. He had very expressive eyes. Castiel couldn’t tell what color they were in the dim bar, but they looked light.

“So, uh, what’s _your_ name?” the bartender asked after looking down abruptly. He began wiping up a spot on the counter with his thumb, rubbing it back and forth until his skin turned white and red with pressure. It made Castiel want to fidget, too, and he didn’t know why. He wasn’t usually prone to that, but he found himself kicking his feet against the legs of his stool.

“Castiel.”

“What?” the bartender asked, leaning in and turning his ear slightly towards Castiel to hear over the music.

Louder, Castiel repeated himself.

“Castiel?”

“Yes.”

“Cool. Castiel.” The bartender said it like he was getting the feel for it in his mouth. And he didn’t say it like most other people did. Everyone Castiel ever knew, himself included, paced out the syllables. _Cas-tee-el_. This man said it in a rush, a whirlwind. Maybe it should have bothered him, but Castiel felt his lips tug as if wanting to smile.

“I’m Dean.”

“Hello, Dean.”

At that moment, someone called from the other end of the bar, brandishing a credit card between their fingers. “Oh, hold that thought,” Dean said, and went off to take their order.

Castiel looked down at the counter, wondering if Dean would come back or if he should do what he was planning to by leaving. He didn’t want to. He wanted to talk to Dean more. Maybe because Dean was the only one that entire evening to treat him like he wasn’t invisible. But he probably wouldn’t return. The patron had given him an out, and he’d likely take it. Castiel wouldn’t blame him. After all, the bar was busy and—

“So, anyway.”

Castiel snapped his head up again so quickly it might have been embarrassing. But Dean wasn’t looking. He’d come back with a rag and was wiping at that same spot he had been before. Castiel noticed the rest of the counter then, and found it pristine despite the rings of condensation that should have been sitting atop the wood.

“I haven’t seen you in here before. You a Jayhawk or you just visiting?”

Castiel opened and closed his mouth—not because he didn’t know how to answer, but because he was still a little taken aback that Dean was still speaking to him. “I’m a student. A junior.”

Dean seemed to be content that the spot he was buffing out was gone, because he tossed the rag onto his shoulder and gave Castiel his full attention. He licked his lips, making Castiel’s feel chapped and dry, and said, “What’s your major?”

“Business management and leadership with a minor in accounting.” He deflated slightly, thinking of the textbook he’d left back at home. It was dense, and he’d read the same sentence three times before Balthazar had accosted him. He knew he should get back to it if he had any hope of getting through the material, but he didn’t want to.

“Awesome,” Dean responded, probably just to be conversational. “You like it?”

Out of all the things Dean had said or done so far, perhaps that was the one to surprise Castiel the most. “Do I _what_?”

“Like it,” Dean said, a little louder, as if he thought Castiel couldn’t hear him. “Do you like business?”

“I—.” He didn’t really know how to answer that. He wouldn’t say he _liked_ what he was studying, but he didn’t see another option. Everyone in his family had studied some form of business or accounting. He was taught that it was the only way, and anything else would be a waste of time. If he were to help with the company, he needed to be prepared.

But did he like it? No one had ever asked him that before.

“I’m impartial,” he heard himself say, and he supposed it was close enough to the truth.

Dean’s eyes registered a myriad of expressions at that, ranging from shock to what Castiel could only assume was pity. “Well, that sucks.”

Castiel looked away again, not knowing what to say to that. Dean shouldn't pity him. He wanted to steer the conversation away from him. “What about you? Are you a student?”

Dean laughed again, this time more openly. He had very nice teeth. Everything about him was very nice to look at. “Me? Hell, no. No. My little brother is. Yeah, Sammy. Just started, actually. He’s a freshman. Skipped a grade and everything.” His eyes were alight suddenly, his smile more genuine. “He’s pre-law.”

Castiel caught himself staring, but he couldn’t stop. Dean looked happy when he spoke of his brother. “Your parents must be very proud.”

Dean’s smile faltered a little, and became less authentic. His eyes lost of some of their luster. “Yeah.”

Castiel didn’t know what he said wrong, but he thought he should change the topic before Dean ended the conversation. “Do you own this bar?”

Seeming knocked out of his thoughts, Dean leaned back in, probably so he wouldn’t have to shout. It was for the best; Castiel’s throat was starting to hurt from the strain. He leaned in, too, his face now half a foot away from Dean’s. Dean seemed surprised for a second, but he didn’t move away.

“Nah,” he said. “Belongs to a family friend. She lets me bartend here on weekends to pick up some extra cash.”

Castiel kept looking at him, expecting him to say more. Maybe he should have asked another question, but he didn’t know what else to say. He just kept staring, trying to figure out what color Dean’s eyes were. It felt imperative to know. He saw Dean’s brows scrunch together uncomfortably, and then smooth out again. His eyes flickered across Castiel’s face like he was trying to figure him out.

And then, suddenly, Castiel’s vision blurred and stung as the overhead lights burst on. Dean leaned back, blinking rapidly.

Green. His eyes were green.

“Somebody turn off that music,” a powerful voice rose up above the confused chattering. The music stopped with a drone as the jukebox was unplugged by a man in uniform. The crowd parted, and Castiel saw a woman dressed in all black with a tan leather jacket move further into the room. She walked right up to the bar, right up to Castiel and Dean.

“You the only one working tonight?” she asked Dean, crossing her arms over her chest and sizing him up.

“Yeah,” Dean answered into the suddenly quiet room. His voice was rougher than it had been a moment before. “Who the hell are you, lady?”

“ _Sergeant_ ,” the woman corrected. Castiel tensed, his eyes shooting towards Balthazar’s direction, but he couldn’t see him across the room. “Friends call me Billie, but you can call me the Grim Reaper because I’m killing this party.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Castiel saw Dean’s shoulders drop and his head roll back in frustration. “You gotta be kidding me.”

Billie didn’t seem to care that she was inconveniencing him. “We got a tip saying this place serves underage kids.”

“Their IDs are checked at the door,” Dean defended.

“Yeah, I bet it’s real thorough. Your boy outside doesn’t even have a scanner.”

“A scanner?” Dean scoffed. “What does this look like, 1 Oak? We can’t even afford a new TV.” He pointed a thumb over his shoulder at the antiquated box over the bar. It had a SD screen with blacked out pixels and was playing a football game.

“Mhm,” Billie hummed, unimpressed. She shouted to the two uniformed officers guarding the door, “Round ‘em up. Check IDs.”

“Oh, come _on_! Gimmie a break, lady,” Dean groaned.

He was unlikely to get a break. Billie said, “Why don’t you show me this place’s liquor license instead.”

Dean groaned again, and Billie’s expression remained neutral, despite her lifting one immaculate eyebrow.

“Now.”

As Dean turned towards the cash register, Castiel tried to make himself as small as possible. Maybe if he didn’t look the sergeant in the eyes, she wouldn’t notice him.

It didn’t work.

“You,” she said. Her voice was like ice down Castiel’s back. “Let’s see some ID.”

Castiel thought it best to obey. He unfolded his wallet and handed over his driver’s license—his _real_ one. He also thought that would be for the best in this situation.

Billie inspected his ID momentarily before her expression tensed. Her eyes flickered back up to him from over the ID, staring coldly into him. “Novak, huh?”

At once, Dean forgot about his search for the liquor license. He whipped around quickly. “Wait, you’re a _Novak_?” His eyes were flaring with heat, and it made Castiel look down at his lap. Only two things ever happened when people heard his name: they either became friendlier or they never wanted to talk to him again. He’d hoped Dean would do neither, but he appeared to be in the same camp as the protestors that lined the sidewalks outside of the company’s headquarters on a seemingly weekly basis.

It shouldn’t have mattered. Castiel didn’t know this boy, or anything about him.

Billie turned her cool eyes on Dean. “Liquor license, remember?” Dean bristled, but Castiel didn’t know if it was directed at him or Billie, and turned around again.

“Alright, you’re free to go,” she told Castiel, practically flicking his ID back at him like it was scum. Apparently, there was something she and Dean had in common. “Since it’s your birthday and all.” Castiel doubted that was really the reason.

From across the room, he heard Balthazar call, “Wait! I’m with him!”

A female voice he’d never heard before followed, “Me, too!”

Balthazar was bouncing up and down on his feet to look over the crowd, and then he began elbowing his way through. A young woman with dark features and ivory skin followed. “Yes, yes. We’re with him. Friends. Best friends,” he said when they reached Castiel’s side.

Billie didn’t seem to buy it. She scrutinized Balthazar and the woman and then looked back at Castiel with barely concealed scorn. “That true?”

Castiel nodded. He didn’t appreciate the woman lying, but he figured she was one of Balthazar’s new friends.

Billie sighed. “Fine. Get out of here, all three of you. Go, before I change my mind.”

Castiel stood up and grabbed his coat, not bothering to put it on. He folded it over his arm and followed Balthazar and the woman out. The crowd parted again, everything seeming to stand still. Balthazar seemed triumphant, and the woman seemed relieved. Castiel looked down at his shoes.

“Oh and, Novak?” Billie called after him when they were halfway to the door. He looked over his shoulder at her. “I’m keeping my eye on you.” The threat probably had very little to do with him and more to do with his family. But, like all police officers and detectives and private investigators that tried to look into his family, she wouldn’t find anything. There was nothing to find, after all. Not anymore.

He’d likely never see her again, and that was a relief.

There was probably someone else he’d never see again, and that sat heavy on his chest. He looked past Billie at Dean, who had apparently found the bar’s license. It was in his hand and he was glaring daggers at Castiel.

Castiel let out a breath and looked away, his cheeks growing hot. As he moved out of the bar, he heard Dean and Billie continue to argue.

“What about your ID? Are you even old enough to be here?”

“What does it matter? I ain’t drinking anything.”

“Uh-huh. Let me see it anyway.”

“Can I show you in like, four months?”

“What’s your name?”

“Winchester.”

“Well, Mr. Winchester—.”

Castiel felt like he could breathe again when he reached the street. There was a chill in the wind, and stray drops of freezing rain occasionally landed on his cheeks. It was like he’d just walked out of a cloud of smoke and into clean air. All the stuffiness was gone.

“Well, that was certainly a close call,” Balthazar said, letting out a breath of his own. “Thank God for the good Novak name, yes?”

“Definitely,” the woman agreed. The word rolled over her lips lazily, droll and bored. Her voice was pointed, like it sat on the edge of a razorblade. She turned to Castiel. “Thanks for getting me out of there. My dad would have killed me if I got arrested.”

Castiel stared at her, petite and pretty in her dark leather jacket and high boots. He slipped into his coat, feeling a little cold again. “Who are you?”

“Ah, yes,” Balthazar cut in. “Might I introduce you to Ms. Masters.”

The woman held out her hand, mouth forming a one-sided wolfish smirk. “You can call me Meg.”

“Castiel,” he said, taking her hand and shaking it. She didn’t let go quickly, and she was looking him up and down in a way that made him a little uncomfortable.

“Excellent! Now that we all know each other,” Balthazar exclaimed, breaking the moment, “why don’t we find another place to entertain ourselves this evening?”

“No,” Castiel answered at once. He wanted to go home. “You two do what you want. I’m leaving.” Without waiting for an answer, he walked past them in the direction of their apartment.

Behind him, he heard Balthazar throw up his hands and slap them back to his sides. “Oh, come on, Castiel. Don’t be like that! Join us!”

“Yeah, it’ll be fun!” Meg tried, but if Balthazar couldn’t convince him to do something, no one could.

“Goodnight,” he called over his shoulder without looking back, stressing both syllables. The rain was starting to pick up. Before he turned the corner, he heard Balthazar groan.

///

Dean rested his forehead against the cool steel door of his family’s apartment and sucked in a deep breath through his teeth. He was home. That was lucky. Until that very second, he was convinced Sergeant Billie would pop out of nowhere and slap cuffs on him, saying she’d changed her mind about letting him go.

Then again, spending the night in jail probably wouldn’t be as bad as the new asshole Ellen was gonna rip him when she found out what happened tonight. She wouldn’t be happy that he’d been serving underage kids, even though he couldn’t really afford to be picky with who was giving him tip money. At least, with him behind bars, she couldn’t kill him.

That was a problem for tomorrow.

At least, that’s what Dean told himself when he took in another breath and closed his eyes into it. But then, in the darkness of the dingy stairwell half-lit by the humming of a flickering fluorescent light, the image of that Novak boy from the bar flashed to the forefront of his mind. What did he say his name was? Castiel?

Yeah, Castiel. With his eyes so blue that Dean could make out their color even in the mood lighting of the bar. And the way they stared at Dean—through him, into him. It’d been pretty intense. Dean had felt almost paralyzed under them, unable to look away. Or maybe he didn’t want to. He’d say Castiel was almost challenging him to look away, like a game of chicken, but it hadn’t felt like that. He didn’t know what it’d felt like.

He blinked, trying to erase Castiel’s face from his mind. It didn’t matter. It’s not like he’d ever see the guy again, and why the hell would he want to?

Leaning back off the door, he grabbed his keys out of the pocket of his leather jacket and shoved one into the keyhole. Inside, two figures on the couch scrambled to separate from one another, and Dean heard Sam clear his throat innocently. He flipped the light on, and pulled an amused face when his kid brother and his new girlfriend whipped around to stare at him from over the back of the couch. Both of them were sporting messy hair and puffy, saliva-covered mouths.

The rest of the room was illuminated, too: the carpeted floors with grime caked in so deep that Stanley Steamer would take one look at them and run for the hills; the threadbare couch and ripped armchair that no one ever sat in except for Dad; the scratched up coffee table that they’d gotten in a yard sale, the one that had made Dean sneeze for a week before the previous owner’s cat’s dander was scrubbed from it completely; the cheap flat screen in the corner with bunny ears hooked into the HDMI port so they could get broadcast and local channels and a few Chinese-language channels that seemed to only play soap operas. The whole place smelled like mold and water damage that Dean swore on his life was buried deep in the walls, despite their landlord’s assurances.

Home sweet home.

“M’I interrupting something?” Dean asked, his finger still on the light switch.

Sam cleared his throat again, this time sounding guiltier, and said, “What? No. Eileen and I were just—.”

“Uh-huh. Hey, Eileen.”

She shot him a grin, not trying to make any excuses. He appreciated that. “Hey, Dean.”

He liked her. Granted, she and Sam had only been dating for a month. They’d met at freshman orientation over the summer. Eileen was a pre-med student from the east coast and, if you asked Dean, Sam was lucky that someone with such a take-no-crap attitude decided to take on his crap. Not that the said crap was his fault. Life wasn’t exactly peaches and cream, especially after what happened to his high school sweetheart.

He’d really thought those two were going to grow up, get married, have two-point-five kids, and get the hell out of this place. But Jessica had died a year ago, and Dean was happy that Sam was getting back out there. It’d been pretty touch and go for a while there, and Eileen was good for him.

Dean closed the door, clicking the deadbolt shut, and shrugged out of his jacket. “What’s a matter, Sammy? You didn’t hear the keys jingling? I mean, Eileen’s got an excuse, but you? Come on, the door’s paper-thin. What’d if it’d been Dad instead of me?”

When he looked back around, Sam was rolling his eyes and puckering his lips in what Dean inwardly coined _the bitch face_. “Yeah, like that’s ever gonna happen.”

The words stung a little. It’d been months since John was last home, but that would end soon. He was just finishing up one more delivery out to California and he’d be home in a couple of weeks.

“What are you even doing home this early? It’s barely midnight.”

Now, it was Dean’s turn to guiltily clear his throat. “Yeah, uh. We got raided. By the cops. They shut us down.”

From the couch, both Sam and Eileen gaped, and exchanged a shocked look.

“What? Does Ellen know?”

“The cops said they were gonna head over to her house, so probably.”

Sam ran a hand through his hair. He didn’t have to ask why the police had paid Harvelle’s a visit during one of Dean’s shifts. He wasn’t stupid. “What’s gonna happen?”

“We’ll get fined out the ass, probably have to close down for a while until it’s paid off. Ellen’s gonna have to apply for a new liquor license.”

“No, Dean, I know that. I mean—.” Sam looked at Eileen again, and it was enough for Dean to know that he wouldn’t like the next question hurled at him. Sam said, “Hey, uh, can you give me a sec with my brother?”

Oh, yeah, he was totally gonna hate this conversation.

Eileen nodded, looking from one brother to the next. “I’ll go get ready for bed,” she said, and pressed a kiss to Sam’s cheek before standing up and heading down the dim-lit hall. And Dean didn’t think that was fair. If she was able to escape this conversation, he should be able to, too. Before Sam could say anything, he quickly scurried into the kitchen off to the side of the room. It was tiny, with a yellow linoleum floor and a cut out chef’s window that looked out into the living room. The appliances must have been from the 80s.

Unfortunately, his daring escape didn’t work, because Sam just followed him into the kitchen.

“What’s gonna happen with rent next month? And the water bill? And, I mean, the loan for my textbooks isn’t paid off yet.” Dean was just happy they didn’t have to worry about tuition, thanks to Sam’s freakishly big brain. “The extra cash was kinda keeping us afloat.”

It was too late to talk about this. Dean reached into the fridge and pulled out a beer. With his other hand, he dug the heel of his palm into his eye to stifle the headache coming on.

“I’ll figure it out, Sammy. Don’t worry about it,” he promised.

Sam scoffed. “Don’t worry about it? Dean, of course I’m gonna worry about it.”

Dean huffed and hooked the cap of the beer bottle under his ring to open it. The serrated edged scratched at the calluses in the fleshy part under his fingers. “It’s not a big deal. I’ll just pick up a few more shifts at Bobby’s.” The bubbles felt good sliding down his throat. He didn’t realize he’d been this thirsty.

Sam gave a derisive laugh. “Yeah, last time I checked, people didn’t tip their mechanic.” Then, Sam’s expression turned serious, and Dean knew what he was going to offer before he even opened his mouth. “I could go back to my job at the motel. I don’t think they’ve found a replacement yet.”

“No, man! Come on. You’re not gonna waste your time fixing sinks and vents. No way.”

“Why not? It’s money, right?”

“I don’t care. You don’t need a job. School’s your job.” He pointed towards the hall where Eileen had disappeared. “School, and your girlfriend. Focus on them.”

Sam’s shoulders dropped. “Dean,” he said severely, like it was the only argument he needed. Dean had had enough.

“Dammit, Sam, no. Let me and Dad worry about the money. You’re not going back to that job, capice?”

He could see Sam wanted to argue more, but Eileen was his saving grace. She took that moment to enter the kitchen, clad in one of Sam’s oversized shirts and gym shorts. She paused momentarily, looking between the two of them. “I’m not interrupting, am I?”

“No,” Dean answered before Sam could. Even if he hadn’t beat Sam to the punch, Eileen’s eyes were currently on him, so he had the upper hand. “We’re done.” He took another swig of beer, challenging Sam to disagree over the bottom of the bottle.

Thankfully, Sam dropped it. He caught Eileen’s attention and agreed, “Yeah, we’re done.”

“Great, ‘cause I’d love to get some sleep,” Dean said. His beer now empty, he tossed it into the recycling bin and pushed past them back into the living room. And then something occurred to him, something else that had happened that night. He spun around and walked backwards, Sam and Eileen following him out. “Oh, you’ll never guess who came into the bar tonight.”

“Yeah, Dean, you already said. The cops.”

“No, dude, not the cops. Fuck the cops. It was a Novak.”

He didn’t know why he was so giddy about sharing the news, but seeing a Novak out in the wild was about as rare as volcanic lightning. The only place actual people ever saw them was on the news, when they were holding some press conference about their latest investment. It was either that, or they could be seen in a pixilated photograph in the paper for some fancy charity gala they were throwing. Then there were the instances when one of them would grace the town with their presence at some church fundraiser.

Dean had mostly seen them through social media posts and fliers handed out on the street protesting their company for—well, you name it. Environmental lawsuits, perjury, nepotism, homophobic religious practices, corporate greed. The list was endless.

But, in all the media fanfare and public outcry, Dean had never seen this particular Novak before. The one with the too-blue eyes and messy hair and soul searching stare and angular jawline, and—okay, whoa. Enough of that.

Sam’s brows shot up into his bangs. “No way!”

“Yes way.”

“And you’re not in jail for punching him?”

“I know. I’m surprised, too.”

“Which one was it?”

“Dunno, I didn’t recognize him. I think he goes to your school. Said he was a student. Castiel or something.”

“Wait, you _talked_ to him?”

“What’s a Novak?” Eileen butt in, looking lost and unimpressed.

Sam turned to her and said, “Uh, it’s this family that owns this big holding company. Evangelist Inc.? You’ve definitely seen their logos and ads around town. And their slogan? You know: _Striving for What You Want_?”

“Yeah, you’d have to be _trying_ not to,” Dean said, popping his head between them so Eileen could read his lips. “They own just about everything in Lawrence.”

Sam shoved him out of the way. “Law firms, insurance companies, construction, newspapers and TV stations, hospitals—hell, waste management.”

“They own more shit than god,” Dean put in, but he didn’t think Eileen saw it because her eyes were still on Sam.

“They got into some trouble a few years back for embezzlement. The town took a major hit. People lost their homes, their jobs. Lots of businesses shut down. The founder went into retirement after that and left everything to his kids,” Sam went on. “Since then there’s been a major overhaul. They’ve actually done a lot to help the community.”

“Bullshit. Every time shit hits the fan, they let one of their investment companies take the blame for everything they’re accused of, say they had no idea what was going on, and then put on a bake sale while their lawyers cover everything up. They’re mafia, I’m telling you.”

Dean didn’t know why Sam was defending them by saying, “Come on, Dean. There’s never been any proof of that.”

Eileen still appeared to not understand what the big deal was. “Okay? And why would Dean punch one of them?”

Sam let out a snort of laughter. “Dean and our dad hate them. I couldn’t care less.”

Dean rolled his head in annoyance and moved towards the couch. He plopped down on it, instantly sinking deep enough to feel the hard part beneath the cushions under his ass. “Yeah, well, you should start caring, Sam. One of these days, you’re gonna have to get an internship or something at one of the law offices around here, and you gotta do your homework. Make sure it’s not one of theirs.”

Sam gave him a skeptical look and crossed his arms over his chest. “Why not?”

“Because I say so. And because they’re crooked.”

“You don’t know that!”

“Oh, I don’t?”

“No!” Sam maintained. “You only hate them because Dad does, and he won’t even tell us why.”

Dean shuffled a little, murmuring, “He has his reasons.”

“God knows what those are,” Sam said, sounding like he was being majorly inconvenienced. In truth, Dean didn’t know exactly why John hated Evangelist so much. The closest he ever got to an answer was one night when John got drunk and said something about their mom looking into them before she died. Mary had worked for the paper for a while, but she gave it up after Dean was born. There’d be no reason for her to be looking into the Novaks; and even if she was, she probably didn’t find anything before she died.

And that had been an accident. Some faulty wiring that sparked a fire in their old house. Everyone got out except her.

Dean rattled his head, trying to get the flashes of that night out of his mind. He could still feel the stinging heat from the flames on his cheeks.

“Whatever,” he said, clapping his hands on his knees and hauling himself up. He’d had enough of this conversation. “I’m going to bed. Gonna get up early and head over to Bobby’s—see if he has any extra shifts for me.”

Sam nodded, solemn now. “Okay. ‘Night.”

“’Night, Dean,” Eileen said.

Dean waved them off as he made for the hall. Right at the mouth of it, he wrapped his hand around the corner of the wall and peered back at the two of them. “Don’t you crazy kids stay up partying too late, you hear?”

Sam shot him another bitch face, but Dean saw the tiniest bit of humor flash in his eyes. He turned back around and headed for his bedroom. It was the second door on the left, next to the bathroom and across from Sam’s. Dad’s was at the end of the hall, but the door was always closed when John wasn’t home. Not that it was usually open when John was around. When he was home, he spent most of the time sleeping the long hours on the road out of his bones.

Dean’s bedroom was small and sparse: a mattress without a frame pushed up against the corner, a Zeppelin poster on one wall and a car-themed calendar from 2010 still hanging on the back of the door just because he liked the illustration of the 1971 Dodge Charger depicted for July, a hip-level dresser with a lamp and a clock-radio, and a little shelving unit for his boom box and cassette tapes. There was a nightstand, too, but the only thing on top of it was a framed picture of his mom and himself as a toddler outside their old house. It had one drawer filled with skin mags and about a tenth of pot.

Dean changed into his pajamas and got into bed, staring up at the ceiling for a whole four minutes before deciding to give up on sleep. Outside, the cars on the busy street whooshed by, their headlights painting shadows on his wall through his thin curtains. Someone was playing a rap song too loudly as they whizzed by, and Dean could feel the pumping bass in his chest.

He reached under his mattress and produced a thick leather bound journal. He’d stolen it from his dad’s room a couple weeks ago. He remembered the first time he saw it, on that night when John slurred Mary’s name in conjunction with the Novaks. He’d had the journal open on the kitchen table in front of him.

He’d left it behind the last time he left home, and Dean couldn’t resist.

He cracked it open for the hundredth time and started flipping through the starched pages. He couldn’t make heads or tails of most of it (it was mostly filled with entries about his time in Afghanistan and military jargon), but there were a few entries detailing the deaths of people in Kansas over the last twenty-some-odd years. Each entry started out with a name at the top of the page: Gallagher, Miller, Wilson, Talley—and so on. Someone in each of those families had died in a house fire, just like their mom. Besides that, Dean didn’t see how they were connected.

He flipped back to the first page and saw his mother’s name written in John’s neat scrawl. Dean ran his fingers over the letters, feeling the slight indentation of the pen on the page. Mary.

He looked at the photograph on his nightstand. Another car drove by outside, briefly lighting the picture up in white before moving on again.

///

Mass had begun. Castiel could hear the hymns rising to a crescendo as he entered the rotunda of the church. The ornately carved wooden doors were already closed, and he dreaded having to open them. But he had to. Michael wouldn’t like that he was late, but it was better than not showing up at all.

Maybe.

He had the same internal debate every time he shirked his eldest brother’s grossly meticulous timetables.

Quickly, he tried to calm his nerves due to the hectic morning he’d had. He patted down his hair to tame it, but it remained wild nonetheless, and loosened the knot of his tie so it wouldn’t constrict his airways. He bypassed the holy water sparkling in the basin in the center of the entranceway, no matter how tempted he was to use it to fix his hair, and made for the doors. Holding his breath, he opened one just wide enough to squeeze himself through. The music from the organ was louder now that he was inside, and the choir in front of the church next to the altar was singing slightly off key. The priest and his altar servers were already seated, waiting for the hymn to end so that mass could begin.

The pews were mostly full, especially for a regular Sunday mass of the liturgical year that wasn’t Christmas or Easter, and _especially_ for 10 AM. The morning sun was shining through the stained glass windows lining the church, and the large circular one behind the altar. An enormous statue of Christ hung on his cross observed the congregation, reminding everyone why there were there and to whom they owed their thanks and praise.

Using the music as his cover, Castiel let the door slip closed behind him. Unfortunately, that was the exact moment the organ player decided to stop playing, and a resounding boom bounced off the steepled roof. It attracted some looks up and down the aisle, including the priest. From the very front row, Castiel saw Michael shoot him a death glare over his shoulder.

Castiel sighed, and glowered back at the door like the traitor it was. If Michael were to actually kill him this time, it was a good thing he was in church. Last rites would be easy to come by.

Keeping his head down, he walked along the wall to the front pews and sidled up to where his brothers and sister were standing in a line. Father Jim had begun mass, welcoming the congregation from the palpate. Down the line, each of his siblings gave him a side-glance of varying disapproval.

Michael was the furthest from him, thank God, and standing next to him was Raphael. Anael was in the middle of the row, and Uriel beside Castiel.

Coincidentally, it was also their birth order, starting with Michael who was twenty years Castiel's senior, and Castiel often wondered if they marshaled themselves that way for that reason—even though there were a few of them missing. The first gone was Lucifer, two years younger than Michael and older than Raphael by only three months. Seven years ago, the company had made headlines for embezzlement and racketeering, and it was Lucifer's doing, and he was currently in jail for the foreseeable future. In truth, Castiel was happy to see him gone. He was never Lucifer's biggest fan, and the feeling was mutual. That seemed to be the popular sentiment among his siblings, but they pointedly avoided talking about it at all costs.

The second gone was Gabriel, fifteen years older than Castiel, and the last of the eldest Novak siblings before Anael was born nine years later and Uriel was adopted two years after that. Gabriel’s leaving caused more of a sore spot for Castiel. He left one day soon after Lucifer had been arrested and their father retired, and Castiel suspected there was a correlation. Gabriel never wanted to work for the company. So, he ran. He didn't even leave a note. Castiel went over his brother's home one day and found it vacated, all furniture gone and walls bare. Michael had told them that Gabriel wasn't coming home and wished them all well, and that was that. As far as Castiel knew, they hadn't heard from him since. He hadn't even gotten to say goodbye. Gabriel could be dead for all they knew. It was another topic they didn't speak of.

Finally, there was Anna. She was three years older than Castiel, but she had always been his closest friend and ally in their family. But that was before. She was another who refused to follow the life their family set out before her. She moved to New York to study psychology and never came back. Last year, she married a man named Joseph Milton, virtually killing Castiel's selfish and foolish hope that she would ever return. She cut all ties from her siblings, all but for Castiel, whom she sent yearly birthday and Christmas cards. He tried to write back to her a few times, but she never responded. Her absence caused a hot band to wrap around Castiel's heart every now and again, but he could never tell if it were pain or envy, and formed a pit in his stomach that felt as hollow as loneliness. He never spoke of it. No one ever did.

Of course, their father was long gone, too. He stepped down from his position as chairman and CEO of Evangelist after Lucifer's transgression, leaving Michael to run the company. Quickly after he retired, he rekindled his relationship with his sister, a woman Castiel had never met because of a falling out before he was born. He left to visit her—in Hawaii? California? Dubai? Castiel wasn't certain. His father didn't keep tabs on his children, and he wasn't a man they could easily track down. That was six years ago. Castiel wondered when he would return— _if_ he would return.

Sometimes, the uncertainty caused Castiel to grind his teeth and tighten his fists until his knuckles went white in a boiling, seething anger as deep and tumultuous as the ocean. Too many people had abandoned him. His father wasn't supposed to. He was supposed to be there. He was supposed to give a damn.

His siblings were content to go on as if nothing was wrong, and it wasn't worth the discussion.

Leaning in, Uriel said under his voice, “Again, Castiel?”

“It was my truck. It broke down,” Castiel whispered back.

“Which is why I ask— _again_?” He sounded amused. Michael was not. He heard their whispers and silenced them with another look, light eyes darkening with fury. Castiel immediately straightened his posture, pulling his shoulders back in a militaristic stance. He cupped his hands in front of him as if in prayer. Uriel stood up straighter, too.

Anael must have seen Michael’s glare because, as soon as he was looking away, she leaned forward, caught Castiel’s eye, and gave him an exaggerated and sarcastic thumbs up. The movement caused the lace bell-sleeve of her dress to move down her arm. Castiel tried not to scowl at her, and it wouldn’t have done much good, anyway. She snapped back in position almost as quickly as she’d come.

Castiel kept his eyes down for the rest of mass, being sure to mouth all the prayers with the congregation, to not sing too loudly, and not to doze off during the priest’s homily.

It was the same every Sunday.

His weekly routine was stringent and orderly. Mondays, Wednesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays after his final class of the day let out, he went to his hour-long boxing lessons, followed by an evening of homework in the campus’ library. Tuesdays and Saturdays, he dedicated his afternoon to looking after two children from the local orphanage, which was usually his only break from the norm depending on what the children wanted to do. Mostly, they went to the park to play, which Castiel gladly did, but sometimes he would take Claire and Jack to children’s museums, ice skating rinks in the winter, and, on one memorable occasion that ended in Jack wailing in the ball pit, Chuck-E-Cheese. After that, he would go on an evening run around campus. Then, depending on Balthazar’s mood, he would be dragged out to some bar or fraternity party against his will.

On Sundays, he attended morning mass with his brothers and sister, and then they all went to the office downtown for a family meeting. It was Castiel’s least favorite part of the week. And the remainder of the day spent in the library was no thrill, either.

In truth, he sometimes wondered if his weekly routine was dull. The infrequent variation bored him when he allowed himself to think about it, so he tried not to. But then, of course, it only felt as if he were going through the motions. Sometimes, he wondered if the next week would be different. It never was.

But it’s what he needed to do. He had to work hard so that he might join his brothers in the ranks of Evangelist some day. The only way to do that was to keep his mind from wandering and his routine rigorous. Like a decent, upstanding member of the family and leader of the community. Like a good little soldier, as Michael often said.

After mass let out, Castiel slowly filed out of the church with the rest of the congregation, remembering to kneel and motion the sign of the cross once he left the pew only because his siblings led by example. Outside the church, Michael was shaking hands with Father Jim. Castiel only caught one or two words of their conversation as he ducked past them, hoping to get to Uriel's silver Audi before Michael caught up with him. If he were lucky, he could avoid any one-on-one time with his oldest brother, and thus spare himself a scolding.

No such luck.

A tight, dark hand gripped his arm and spun him around. "Now, now, Castiel, you know what Michael said the last time you were tardy." Raphael's deep voice reverberated like a bass line from Castiel's ears all the way down to his feet. He was shocked it didn't cause a crack to spring out on the asphalt.

Castiel let out a breath, knowing there wasn't a way out of this. He might as well get it over with. Even though he complied, Raphael's fingers tightened around him, and he brought him back towards the statue of the Virgin Mary in the church's courtyard.

Michael was finished speaking with the priest. He brought his gaze up, his hazel eyes sharp under the rim of his hat, covering his blackish, gelled back hair. Castiel had long since caught up to him in height, give or take a few inches, but Michael still seemed an imposing five feet taller.

"How many times, Castiel? Your unpunctuality reflects poorly on the rest of us," Michael said when they were close enough, his tone even and flat.

"Apologies, my truck broke down," Castiel told him, averting his eyes to Michael's shoulder. He knew his brother was getting tired of hearing that, even if it were true.

As he expected, Michael sighed. "That excuse is getting old. Make sure I don't hear it again." And that was that. It was a lot easier than Castiel was anticipating. As Michael walked away, taking long strides towards his Rolls Royce parked in the back of the lot, he called over his shoulder, "Ride with Uriel."

Castiel cast a glance towards Uriel, already in his car with the engine running, waiting for him. Raphael let go of his arm suddenly, making Castiel stagger and his muscle pulse with the phantom constriction, and went for his Mercedes.

The parking lot was mostly empty now, all but for them and the straggler cars full of children or the elderly pulling onto the street. From the spaces in the middle of the lot, Anael flung her door open and looked over the roof of her BMW. She took off her oversized sunglasses, shrugged her arms out wildly, and yelled, "Are we going or what? Some of us have a life to get back to!"

Michael only waved a hand towards her to signal she get back in her car. She let out a loud groan and disappeared, audibly slamming her door shut again.

Once everyone was in their cars, Castiel remembered to move. He trudged towards the Audi, and slid into the passenger seat. The scent of pristine leather from the seats and pine from the air freshener immediately filled his senses. The opposing fragrances gave him an instant headache. He missed his truck.

Uriel immediately took off after the other cars, the ride a lot smoother and lower to the ground than Castiel was used to. Castiel scrambled to buckle his seat belt. It locked up at first, and he tried to force it to no effect before releasing it and trying again.

"How long will you be without it this time?" Uriel asked.

Folding his hands onto his lap, Castiel said somberly, "The man who towed it away said four days." At least the repair shop was familiar to Castiel, even if he’d only driven past it. It was close by the playground he frequently took the children.

A smile split Uriel's round face and his eyes went gleeful. His rumbling, hearty laugh filled the small space.

"I don't see what's so funny—."

"You." Uriel got a hold of himself as they came to a stop at a red light. "You, Castiel, and your strange fondness for broken things."

Castiel turned his face away from his brother to look out the window. His expression frowned back at him.

"I don't see why you don't just let Michael buy you a new car. It would be much better than the sorry excuse for transportation you have now. And it would make him a lot happier."

Castiel didn't want to make Michael happy, even if it would make his life significantly easier. But he loved his truck. He'd gotten it second—or third—hand from some seedy used car lot on the outskirts of town, and he had to admit it was unreliable. It failed on him, either entirely or gradually, at least once a month; and, ever since he’d driven it off the lot, the engine made a constant, irritating clicking sound that had left every mechanic he’d ever taken it to scratching their heads in mystification.

But it was the only thing he'd ever purchased for himself, with his own money that he earned from his secret high school job at a local gas station.

Nothing was his. Not his apartment. Not his tuition. Not the food he ate or the clothes he wore. But that truck was his. And he loved it. He was proud of it, even if it was broken.

"But you won't listen to me," Uriel sighed, making Castiel turn back towards him.

"No, I suppose I won't." He turned back to look at the fields and farmhouses rolling by. Eventually, they gave way to clusters of houses, and then shops and business centers, and then taller buildings as they drove downtown. It was a twenty-minute ride from the church to the office, and there was still five minutes left.

Castiel didn't know how to fill them.

Trying, he said uncomfortably, "I received a birthday card from Anna."

Uriel hummed in response, and shot him another wide grin, all teeth. "That's right. Happy birthday, brother." He said nothing of Anna, and Castiel didn't correct him by reminding him that his birthday was yesterday.

Castiel thinned his lips, forced a polite smile, and looked down at his lap. He wondered if he should ask after Lucifer. He knew Uriel stayed in touch with him, and even went to visit him in prison. No one else knew of their continued relationship, and Uriel wasn't open to broadcasting such information. Castiel decided it was better not to ask. He wasn't truly interested in the answer, anyway. He was content to let Lucifer rot.

Soon, their small caravan was pulling into the gated parking lot behind a looming redbrick building that took up the entirety of a city block. From the outside, it looked like a refurbished factory, with long floor-to-ceiling windows, a square shaped architectural plan, and a flint facade on the first floor with arched doors.

The inside, however, was anything but industrial. Bright and elegant fluorescent lights hung over an open floor plan of glass and wood cubicles washing the space in white. The walls were painted pure white, and were lined with modern art and potted plants. The offices and conference rooms on the corners of each of the four floors were expansive and state of the art, with frosted glass opening them up to the rest of the floor while still maintaining privacy.

The reception area on the bottom floor was expansive, with hardwood floors and a high ceiling. Black leather couches and coffee tables were situated against the walls for guests. A circular security desk sat in the middle of the foyer, where each of them tapped their ID cards to check in before heading to the elevators behind the desk.

They road the elevator up to the top level, where the executive suites were. The floor was mostly empty for the weekend, but there were a few worker bees typing away behind their dual monitors in the bullpen. They all looked up as the Novaks passed, some giving friendly smiles and others greeting them. Michael and Raphael breezed past each of them with a nod to acknowledge them. Castiel wanted to stop and say hello—to ask Akobel how his daughter was, or Hester about her latest soccer match, or to see how Inias was doing after his mother's death. But he didn't want to risk Michael's ire; he was already on thin ice. He kept in line with his siblings as they walked to Michael's office across the floor.

They passed Raphael's suite on the way—the office of the COO. As Executive Director, Uriel's own office was one level down.

Outside the door, a young woman with short brown hair and a gentle face sat at her desk. She looked up at the Novaks as they entered, her posture immediately straightening.

"Hi. How was church?" she tried.

"Enlightening," Michael answered. And then, "Call the others in. We're ready to begin."

She nodded dutifully and picked up the corded phone on her desk, pressing a speed dial button.

"Hello, Hannah," Castiel leaned in and whispered to her as he passed.

She gave him a warm kind smile and whispered back, "Hi, Castiel—Oh. Yes, ma'am. They just got in. He says to come over—."

Castiel didn't hear the rest of the conversation, as the office door closed behind them and barred any outside noises. He couldn't even hear the horns from the cars on busy street below, despite the gigantic window framing Michael's lavish desk.

Michael moved behind the desk and sat in the leather chair behind it. The others either sat in the chairs in front of the desk or on the couch to the side of the room. Castiel stayed along the wall by the door, hoping to make a quick escape once they were finished. He had a lot of studying to do to prepare for the week ahead, and it would take over an hour to take the bus back to campus.

Also, he didn't wish to be there in the first place.

Momentarily, the intercom on Michael's desk phone buzzed. He clicked the button. "Yes?"

"They're here, sir," Hannah said.

"Send them in."

Two people came through the door: a tall, severe woman in a gray tailored suit, her brown hair pulled tightly in a bun, and a white haired portly man with wrinkles and liver spots. Naomi and Zachariah had been brought in as president and vice president during the reorganization, when the board decided it would appease public opinion to hire people outside of the Novak family into executive positions.

After they greeted each other and everyone was settled, Michael placed his palms flat on his desk and said, "Good. Now that we're all here, we can begin. Firstly, are there any family matters anyone wishes to discuss?"

No one spoke up. No one ever did, despite Michael beginning every meeting this way. Castiel thought it may be awkward to discuss such things with two non-family members present, which may have been why Michael did it.

"Besides Castiel's need for a working car?" Uriel teased, and it was met with snickers. Castiel tried to play along with a small smile, but he could feel his cheeks coloring bashfully.

Michael appeared humored momentarily before saying, "Then, let's get down to business."

They launched into a discussion about company affairs, such as which of their subsidiaries were opening new branches and which needed loans, profit margins and projected quarterly earnings, and the like. Castiel tuned out. He wasn't even sure why he was there. Family meetings were a tradition started by their father, who thought it would be good for his children to know about the state of the company they were to run one day. He often encouraged them to come up with their own ideas and solutions but, as far as Castiel knew, none of them were ever implemented. It was simply a training process, started at a young age.

Castiel was as disinterested in it now as he was as a child.

Also bored was Anael, who was openly focusing on filing her nails, her legs crossed in front of her as she leaned back on the sofa. Anael wasn't a part of the day-to-day company workflow. She hosted a daily talk show on one of the television networks under Evangelist’s ownership, on which she interviewed local businessmen, charity sponsors, and politicians that Michael supported for election. There were segments to promote wellness and beauty—when experts came on to talk about the latest lifestyle trends, meals, and products—which was technically the purpose of the show. But it was mostly a never-ending advertisement for Evangelist.

Somehow, Anael had found a way to work for the company without actually working for it. It was admirable, in a way, and Castiel sometimes wondered if she had the best mind for business in their family, after all.

In the interim, in which Castiel was watching the fluffy clouds roll by outside the window, his mind turned to the previous night. He could no longer taste the beer on his tongue or the rain droplets on his cheeks; the effects of the music had long since stopped clogging his eardrums; and his pulse had stopped pounding due to his close call with the police; but he could still picture the impossibly green eyes and freckled nose of the bartender. Dean Winchester.

Dean Winchester and his expressive eyes. They'd been warm and sharp and teeming with jubilance, intelligence, wit, and daring. Even now, hours after the fact and likely miles apart, Castiel felt as if he were still staring into them.

It was unlikely Castiel would ever see Dean again, but he thought he might remember him with vivid clarity for the rest of his life.

Such expressive eyes . . .

"There is one other matter," Zachariah said, his perpetually snide voice pulling Castiel out of his thoughts. "One of the tree-hugger groups has threatened to sue us over a vacant lot near the lake. Apparently, our boys at the waste management plant have been using it to get rid of excess trash, and the run-off has been wreaking havoc on the fish."

He didn't seem too concerned about the environment or their impact on it. Rather, he sounded inconvenienced by it.

Waving his hand dismissively, he went on, "They're crying global warming again. Like people aren't sick of that scare tactic by now."

A muscle in Castiel's jaw jumped as he clamped it down to silence himself.

"Have you come up with a solution to avoid a lawsuit?" Michael asked.

"Yes, sir, we think we have," Naomi cut in. She folded her hands on top of the notebook resting on her crossed knees. "The vacant lot is large enough for a recreational area. We believe the community might find it suitable for a park. We could extend an olive branch to the environmental activists and work with them to clean it up."

Castiel tried to ignore the churning in his stomach. He told himself that this was progress towards a better world. They would be doing a good deed by cleaning up the water and creating a new park for children to play and the town to enjoy. They were bettering their community, even if it was a Band-Aid solution to avoid legal action. They were reacting to a problem and learning from their mistakes.

It was a good thing. Their father would have been proud.

Apparently, Michael thought so, too. "Then, that's what we'll do. The money for the project will come from the community outreach budget."

"Thank you, sir," said Zachariah.

Naomi said, "We'll send out a company-wide correspondence encouraging people to volunteer. The timeline on this could be completed by, I'd say, mid- to late-summer of next year."

Michael nodded his approval and asked, "Are there any other items on the agenda?"

Everyone was silent, and Castiel was ready to slip out, but then Anael shoved her emery board back into her designer purse and sat up. "Yeah, I have one," she said, her sharp voice filling the room.

Michael leaned back in his chair, and a wave of silent exasperation washed over the room.

Anael didn't seem to notice or mind. "When am I getting the bigger studio space I was promised a year ago?"

Raphael spoke up, "We've run into more pressing obstacles. The budget for your television show is limited."

"Yeah right. Don't give me that BS," she said. Quickly, she stood up and walked directly in front of Michael's desk, fearlessly putting her hands on top of it and leaning in.

Castiel bit back a smile. As selfish as his sister was, she admittedly amused him to no end.

"A growing audience means we need a bigger space. Pay up—unless you want me to stop hosting your boring friends."

Michael raised a brow, his expression remaining neutral. "Only if you wish for your _entire_ budget to be redistributed."

There was a stalemate into which Michael and Anael stared each other down, but Michael won. Anael jumped back, throwing her hands in the air. "Whatever, Michael! Sorry for trying to promote your business—and, oh by the way—being the only person in this family actually making an impact on people's lives around here." She folded her arms over her chest in a challenging manner. "Don't blame me for your inability to appreciate my contribution. It's not my fault all my brothers had bugs crawl up their asses."

Castiel tilted his head to the side at the expression. He didn't know why he was being included in this. He'd never watched her show, but he didn't oppose it, either.

"Are you finished?" Michael asked calmly.

She settled. "Sure am."

"Good. We'll look into the budget again. Have your producers send Raphael estimates for the move."

"Thank you. Now, was that so hard?"

Thankfully, Michael’s intercom buzzed again, and Hannah told him his next appointment had arrived. Michael dismissed them with the unnecessary reminder that they would meet again next week.

When the office door opened, Castiel caught sight of a tall and lean middle-aged man standing near Hannah’s desk. His mouth was lined as he shot her a wicked smile and, when he looked up, there was a flash of light brown eyes, almost pale golden in color—or no, not gold. Yellow.

Castiel didn't stay to exchange goodbyes with his siblings. He excused himself as quickly as he could without seeming obvious, waved quickly at Hannah, and did his best to get to the bus stop before the 12:07 PM departed.

///

The back room of the downtown bar smelled like week-old tobacco smoke, even though no one crowded around the folding card table had a cigarette smoldering from the ashtray. There was still some fine gray ash in the dish, however, and a butt that had long since stopped furling with smoke. It must have been left over from the players the night before.

But that wasn’t where the smell was coming from, despite its contribution. Every time Dean had been in that back room, which was at least twice a week, it was always rancid with that particular odor. It's like it was stuck in the walls or something.

But it's not like anyone sitting around the table was about to complain. Dean doubted any of them spent their time sniffing rosebuds all day.

There were some familiar faces tonight: Gordon Walker and his crony, Kubrick, and a twitchy guy named Frank Devereaux. There were a couple others that Dean had never seen before, who introduced themselves as Drexel and Duke.

The game had been going on for close to five hours, and it was getting late—or early. Whichever one 5 AM was. Dean had to be back at Bobby's in four hours, and he would be a lot more upset about that if he hadn't been on a winning streak.

Drexel and Frank had already folded, and Duke just raised the pot to three hundred. Gordon played his hand first. A full house—three fours and two Jacks. He hummed, a shark-like grin forming triumphantly on his face. Kubrick groaned, reluctantly muttering, "Nice job, Boss," and Duke threw his cards down onto the table in a fit of frustration.

Dean rolled his tongue across his upper row of teeth and bit back the smirk twitching his lips. "Not bad," he allowed. "Tell you what else ain't bad—." He set his cards down on the table in a neat fan, revealing a royal flush, and let his grin go free.

There was a chorus of curses and grunts from around the table. Dean laughed, "Sorry, fellas. Guess it's my lucky night."

"Yeah, pretty lucky," Gordon agreed. His voice was cool and his eyes cold as they stared across the table at him. "What's that, Dean? Your third win in a row?"

Dean reached forward for the messy pile of cash in the middle of the table and started to slide it in. The bills rustled and the coins clunked together dully. Someone’s gold watch flipped over. "Well, what can I say? Don't hate the player, hate the game."

Suddenly, Gordon slapped his hand down over Dean’s. He was on his feet, unblinking as he stared Dean down. Dean's heart skipped, and then pounded to make up for the lost beat.

After a second of glaring dangerously, Gordon's face eased into something faux-pleasant. "Sure, sure. But only if the game isn't rigged."

Dean felt a muscle in his jaw jump as he bit down hard. _Shit_.

"Now, I know you're not suggesting what everyone thinks you're suggesting," he said, keeping his tone glib and unbothered despite the hurricane twisting in his gut. "So, why don't we just call it a night, huh?"

He tried to take his hand from under Gordon's, but Gordon latched onto his wrist, not letting go. The leather of his jacket creaked under the hold. _Shit, shit_.

"What'cha doing there, Gordon?" He used his best tough-guy voice, which, he wasn’t bragging, was pretty tough.

Gordon didn't seem impressed. "Search him," he said simply, and let Dean go, leaving a red mark in the shape of his fingers behind.

Dean backpedaled, leaving the pot on the table. His calf hit his chair, and he had to take his eyes off the others long enough to get around it. "Come on, guys, I think we're all just tired. Let's not do anything any of us'll regret."

"Don't worry, we won't," Kubrick promised, making it sound more like a threat. Meanwhile, Drexel and Duke grabbed Dean by the arms to keep him still. Frank stood in front of his chair at the table, looking like he might make a run for it at any second.

"Easy!" Dean yelled, trying to rip his arms away, but they wouldn't budge. Kubrick flared out Dean's jacket and started going through the inside pockets. He pulled an ace out of one and a queen of hearts from the other, and held them up for Gordon to inspect.

Dean puckered out his lips and nodded, accepting his fate. No use denying it now. They wouldn't fall for it. Really, only a dumbass would try.

"Would you believe me if I said I was holding those for a friend?"

Okay, so maybe he was a dumbass.

"That's funny," Gordon told him, even though his expression stayed neutral and he didn't laugh. He perched himself on the edge of the table. "Think you'll still be that funny with a bullet in your brain?"

A drop of ice dripped down Dean's spine, rendering him motionless. He swallowed hard in attempt to kick his senses back into life. He let out a nervous kind of chortle and dipped his head to the side in mock-thought. "Depends. Which lobe you aiming for?"

Gordon stood up again, so fast that the legs of the table screeched as they slid back an inch. Dean figured he was O for two on Gordon's patience. He tried to step back out of reflex, but the hands around him tightened, preventing him from doing so.

"Okay, alright!" Dean said, holding up his palms in surrender as best he could. "Keep the cash!"

"Oh, we're keeping it, alright." Gordon stepped forward, and Kubrick moved out of the way so he and Dean could be face to face. "But, uh, just for good measure, since we don't know just how long you've been cheating us out of our money—why don't you match it dollar for dollar? As a show of good faith. What were you up to tonight? Two and a half?"

Dean gaped. He'd rather they just killed him.

Okay, fine, maybe not _kill_ him.

"Oh, come on, Gordon! Don't you think that's a little unreasonable?"

"Oh, you want unreasonable? Okay." He scratched at his beard, and Dean could hear the dull nails against skin and hair in the proximity. His breath smelled like whiskey and, wouldn’t you know it, cigarettes. "Double it, then. An even five-K. By the end of the month."

Dean gaped, almost speechless. When his mind stopped reeling, he asked, "Where the hell am I supposed to get five grand in a week and half?" That was seven months’ rent. That was fourteen weeks’ worth of paychecks from the garage. That was Sammy's textbook money and a shit ton of groceries.

"Not really my problem. But you better get it, or I guess we'll find out how funny you really are." Gordon stepped back again, waving his hand. "Get him out of here."

Drexel and Duke started pulling him backwards towards the back door, and Dean struggled to get out of their hold. "Wait, man, let's talk about this—!"

Duke socked him in the jaw so hard, it threw off Dean's equilibrium. "Son of a bitch!" Everything went dark and fuzzy, and the next thing he knew he was getting tossed out back next to the rancid garbage bins and soggy cardboard boxes. The tin door slammed behind him, the sound echoing in his skull.

Dean stumbled against the opposite wall, catching himself with a splayed hand for support. His boot was in some kind of sludge that twinkled with the lights pooling in from outside the alley, but he didn't see a point in moving it. He rattled his head to rid himself of the dizziness and, once he caught his balance, he straightened out and leaned back against the bricks.

He breathed—in through his nose, out through his lips. He closed his eyes and tensed his fists at his sides. He could already feel a nasty bruise blooming and throbbing on his tender jaw, but that was the least of his worries.

"Shit."

"Shit, indeed."

A smooth, quiet voice had said it from somewhere to his left. If Dean wasn't so on edge, he would have thought he'd imagined it, like the night itself had whispered back to him. He started, ripping his eyes open and jumping off the wall.

There was a stout man in a tailored black suit and long pea coat in the middle of the alley. His black hair blended in with the shadows, and the flickering neon light from outside the alley reflected his eyes in red. He stepped forward, avoiding the puddle of dirty water as to not mess up his immaculately buffed shoes.

"Who the hell are you?" Dean said, making his voice as rough as possible. He coiled himself up, readying himself for a fight if need be.

"Call me a concerned party," the man said, and Dean realized he was British. His voice went down like expensive scotch, but Dean felt the burning sensation masked by the taste.

"Bull. Who are you?"

The man rolled his eyes and shoved his hands into the pockets of his coat. "Name's Crowley. I represent the organization that oversees your little high stakes poker games."

This guy was full of it. If he was going to be a con man, he should at least do his research. "Gordon runs the games."

"Gordon?" Crowley scoffed. "That waif couldn't run a girl’s tea party. He merely gets a cut of the profits for procuring the players. Word of mouth is key, after all. It's not like we can take an ad out on primetime telly, you know?”

Dean didn't know, and he didn't care. He was tired and his face was throbbing and he wanted to go home and put a frozen steak over it. "Yeah, listen, buddy—whatever you're selling, I'm not interested."

He was about to leave it at that, to turn around and walk out of the alley. But then Crowley said, "You sure about that? Because, it seems to me, you've gotten yourself into quite the pickle." He whistled like he was impressed. "Five grand. Not a situation I'd want to be in."

Something in Dean's stomach tightened hopefully. He couldn't help it. The thought was in his head before he could stop it, on his lips before he could force it down: "If you run this game, can you get me out of the debt?"

He wanted to kick himself. There’d be a catch. This felt a little too much like selling his soul to the devil for his liking.

"'Fraid not," Crowley told him. "But you can earn it back."

Dean licked his lips, considering.

"Earn it?"

Yeah, he was _definitely_ a dumbass.

"Poker games aren't my boss' only interest. There are jobs that need to be done, and it just so happens, we have an employment opportunity."

This went against his better judgment, but damn did he need the money. He wondered if there was another way, or if he was already just that desperate. He asked, "What kind of jobs?"

Crowley shrugged up his shoulders and said, "Deliveries, mostly. I give you a parcel, you take it where it needs to go. That kind of thing. Simple as pie. You could earn a pretty penny."

For a moment, Dean thought he'd say yes—but no. No way. He wasn't getting involved in this. Underground poker games and serving underage college kids was one thing—but this? He was, decidedly, not that desperate yet. Ask again later.

He waved his hand, ready to turn around again and put this all behind him. "Thanks, but I ain't Amazon."

"Fair enough," Crowley told him easily. He took his hand out of his pocket, pulling out a card with it. Between two fingers, he stretched his arm out and offered it to Dean.

Dean glared at him up and down, keeping his hands firmly at his side. Crowley shook the card a little, hoping to make it seem more enticing. "In case you change your mind."

He probably wouldn't go away unless Dean took it. So, he plucked the card from between Crowley's fingers and glanced at it. It was simple, an eggshell background with black text. The initials FM were printed on it with a telephone number underneath.

"What, no company email address?" Dean joked.

Crowley half-grinned. He started walking backwards, and held his hand to his ear mimicking a telephone. "Call me." With that, he spun around and started sauntering away, back to whatever hole he most likely crawled out of.

Dean didn't know what to make of it. He blinked after him for a while, listening to the drops of water dripping off the leaf-clogged gutters and the occasional rush of wheels on the road outside.

He should have really flicked that card to the ground and left it behind with his boot print outlined on the smooth stock paper. He put it in his pocket, and walked outside the mouth of the alley towards the Impala.

///

It was pouring rain when Castiel arrived at the orphanage that Tuesday afternoon. Rainwater filled the holes on the street and streamed through the cracked sidewalks as it rushed towards the gutters. It slapped against Castiel's coat and drenched his hair. He tried not to step into puddles, but it proved unavoidable.

He missed his truck.

The orphanage was only a few blocks away from campus, but it took him over fifteen minutes to walk there in the weather.

It stood along a row of houses, and the orphanage itself was a small, two-floor home with a wood-panel facade. A tall ash tree with a swing was in the front yard, and the backyard had a modest jungle gym and trampoline and was constantly littered with stuffed animals and plastic trucks. The lawn sign out front read _Hanscum-Mills Children’s Home_ in periwinkle letters.

When Castiel reached the porch, he palmed the water off of himself as best he could and rang the bell. It didn't take long for the door to swing open, revealing a blonde woman with a beaming grin.

"Hey-ya there, Castiel," Donna said cheerfully. "Golly—don't you look like a drowned cat!"

Castiel blinked. Some water dripped onto his lashes. "Um. Thank you?"

She flapped her hands inward, gesturing him inside with a rush. "Come in, come in."

Thankfully, the inside of the house was dry. Castiel scraped his shoes on the doormat as Donna closed the door behind him. Instantly, he heard the chatter of children from the main room to his right. He peered inside to find Alex, Patience, Dustin, and Aiden playing a board game at the base of the cloth sofa. Directly in front of him, there was a stairwell against the wall, leading up to four bedrooms, three with two sets of bunk beds each and one for the orphanage's owners. The basement level of the building had been converted into office space, Castiel knew, but, in the two years he'd been volunteering there, he'd never been down there and doubted that would change any time soon.

"They might be a little cranky. They've been cooped up all day and haven't gotten their dinner yet," Donna warned as she led him down the narrow hall, past the stairs, and through to the kitchen at the back of the house.

"That's fine," Castiel told her as they walked. "I thought I would take them for pizza." There was a pizza parlor in walking distance, which was suitable without transportation, and the weather meant the park was out of the question.

Donna seemed delighted. She started prattling about her favorite pizza toppings as they moved into the kitchen. Five children were sitting at the table with schoolbooks or, in Jack’s case, a coloring book in front of them. There was Claire and Jack, Josephine, Krissy, and a tiny girl with bushy black hair and darkish skin that Castiel had never seen before. She glanced up at him with wide eyes, almost skittishly, and then looked down shyly at the table.

A few of the older children weren’t present, and he reasoned they must have been at after-school activities.

A thin woman with cropped hair, clad in flannel, was crouched down next to Krissy, helping her with her math homework. Jody's expression was warm and inviting when she noticed Castiel come in. "Hey, Castiel."

Jody had taken over the orphanage from her now retired parents ten years ago, and Donna supposedly came into the picture not long after. The two had been partners, both professionally and in life, ever since. That was a fact Michael was begrudgingly aware of when he signed the donation checks every month; but all that mattered was that he signed them. His prejudices didn’t.

It wasn’t just for optics, Castiel told himself. Michael cared about helping the children, no matter who ran the shelter. All of the Novaks cared about giving orphans a home.

There was a shrill screech that sounded vaguely like Castiel's name, and Jack leaped from his chair. He bounded forward and wrapped himself tightly around Castiel's leg. Castiel smiled down at him and placed his hand on the top of Jack's head in greeting.

"Hey, loser," Claire said from her place at the table, easily less enthused about seeing him as Jack was.

"Claire!" Jody scolded at once. But the new girl, still with her gaze downcast, had smirked slightly at the name-calling.

"Hello, Claire," Castiel sighed. "Jody."

"I wanna go to on the seesaw!" Jack said. He had extracted himself from Castiel's leg and was now bouncing up and down excitedly.

Castiel looked at the window, fat drops streaming down the glass, and grimaced.

"It's too wet," Claire told Jack like it was the most obvious thing in the world. And it was, but Castiel was certain nothing would dampen the boy's spirits.

He was five years old, and she was seven. Claire's parents had died in a car accident when she was a toddler. Jack's mother had died in childbirth, and his father had never been present. They were fostered in the same home for most of Jack's life, until about a year and a half ago when they came to the orphanage. Despite the differences in their personalities, they were still very close, and everyone in the home considered them brother and sister.

A few months after their arrival, they had been assigned to Castiel at the orphanage's annual "Day of Fun," where volunteers—usually college kids hoping to get course credit for a humanities class—"adopted" one or two of the children for a day and took them around town for activities. Most of them went to the movies, but a few of the more wealthy and creative students took the children to a painting class, a children’s museum, or the like.

Castiel fell for his charges almost immediately, so much so that'd he'd stopped perceiving spending time with them as volunteering.

"Where _are_ we going?" Claire asked.

"Are you hungry? I thought we could get pizza."

"Pizza!" Jack shouted, and Castiel counted that as a vote in the affirmative.

Claire brightened, too. "Can Kaia come?"

Castiel frowned in confusion, until he saw the new girl perk up a little. He smiled at her gently in attempt to be disarming. "Of course. As long as Jody and Donna permit it."

There was an immediate slew of begging, and Jody and Donna acquiesced easily. "But you're all finishing your homework when you get back. No funny business," Jody said sternly, pointing at each of them in turn with two fingers before turning them back on her own eyes. "Now, go get your rain gear. Come on. Chop, chop." She stood up as she said it, and Donna shepherded them out of the kitchen. There was a thundering of small feet running up the stairs.

Castiel and Jody drifted out into the hallway, and Castiel prompted, "Kaia?"

Jody brought her attention to him. "Yeah," she said wistfully, sadly. She crossed her arms over her chest. "We brought her in last week. Poor thing. The rest of her family was killed in a botched robbery."

"That's awful." No wonder the girl was so shy.

Jody nodded solemnly in agreement. But she changed the subject quickly to something more positive. "She and Claire have taken quite the shining to one another. They've practically been attached at the hip since Kaia got here. Hope you don't mind her tagging along."

Castiel was glad to hear that Claire had made a new friend. She could be a difficult child to deal with, especially among her peers. Even more so, he would happily help Kaia adjust to her new normal. He didn't mind at all. "I don't," he assured her.

When the children were ready, they began their trek to the pizza parlor. Thankfully, the rain had let up a little, but a fine mist still drizzled from overhead. Castiel held the umbrella he'd picked up at the orphanage in one hand, and Jack's tiny hand in his other. Claire and Kaia were ahead of them, sharing their own bright blue umbrella. Claire jumped into every puddle, her red rubber boots sloshing and splashing the water everywhere. Every time, it made Kaia grin. One of her front teeth was missing, as the replacement hadn’t yet grown in.

They arrived at the pizzeria without incident, and the children pushed through the glass door excitedly. They briefly attracted the attention of a few of the people in the restaurant as Castiel collected the umbrellas and shook off the excess water. "Go sit down. I'll order," he told them.

He was met with general disorder and shouting.

"I want pepperoni! No, extra cheese!"

"I like mozzarella sticks!"

“Extra cheese!”

They pulled at his arms to get his attention, and Castiel tried to stand up straight to little success as they hung off of him. "Okay, okay. Go sit."

They rushed for one of the tables by the soda machine, and Castiel headed to the line at the counter. He squinted up at the menu, and the letters were fuzzy. He considered he might need glasses, and was so wrapped up in the thought that he didn't notice the woman leaning against the display window with full pies encased inside. She was boredly tapping her nails on the glass before she spotted him.

"Castiel?"

Upon hearing his name, he brought his eyes down and saw Meg. A slanted grin formed on her face. "I thought that was you," she said, picking herself up from her lean and coming over.

"Oh," he said, blinking. "Hello, Meg." He hadn't expected to see anyone he knew, but he supposed the pizza parlor was close enough to campus to warrant it.

Still, he found himself asking, as if a person getting pizza was a rare occurrence, "What are you doing here?"

"Headed to a friend's. Some of us are having a movie night, since the weather's so shitty." She nodded back towards the counter. "I offered to bring the grub."

Castiel opened his mouth to say something; he had no idea what, but it would no doubt be stumbling and awkward. However, Jack took that exact moment to shriek, and Castiel whipped his head around in time to see Claire blowing tiny, rolled up pieces of a napkin at him through a straw.

"Claire, leave your brother alone," he called. She scrambled to hide the straw as if he hadn't already seen it, and put on her best innocent face.

Castiel rolled his eyes and brought his focus back to Meg, who had one brow raised in an unreadable expression.

"Who are the brats?" she asked, her voice sardonic.

Castiel tilted his head to the side due to her word choice. "They're actually rather well-behaved." Jack yelled again, and he didn't have to look back to know that Claire was still bothering him. He sighed. "Sometimes."

"Uh-huh." She seemed disinterested. "Tell you what—why don't you ditch the twerps back with their parents and come hang with me and my friends?"

"They don't have—. They're from the orphanage."

She let out an explosive breath, as if he'd said something to inconvenience her. "Jesus, who does that? You're like, a saint. You're _nicer_ than a saint!"

He didn't know how to respond to that. She hadn’t made it sound like a compliment, per se. His eyes shifted to the side in thought, but he came up with nothing. Instead, he said, "I promised them pizza." Politely, clumsily, he added, "You're welcome to join us."

He took a step forward as the line moved, and realized he was next. She snorted loudly. "Yeah, you do not want to see me around kids. It's not pretty. You'd lose all your respect for me."

He refrained from telling her that he didn't know her well enough to have any particular amount of respect for her to begin with.

Another scream.

" _Claire_! I mean it."

"Whoa, Dad voice," Meg laughed. She dragged her eyes up and down his person appreciatively, as if he were an item on the menu. "Hot."

His brows collapsed. Was she flirting with him?

"Masters!" an employee called, setting three boxes atop the counter.

Meg went to collect them, and paused at Castiel's side again on her way towards the door. "Rain check?" she asked.

He pressed a thin smile to his lips and nodded, not knowing if it was a lie. He supposed he wouldn't object to spending time with her if their schedules aligned. She seemed friendly enough, and it would make his siblings happy to know he was “being sociable,” of which they often scrutinized him as being the opposite.

"Sweet." She flashed him another wry smile. "See you around, angel."

Again, she'd thrown him off, and he wondered if he'd ever learn how to respond to her. He was slowly beginning to realize that talking to Meg Masters was difficult, and he was wholly inept at it.

Bewildered, he watched her head out of the pizza shop, barely hearing the employee calling, "Next!"


	2. Chapter 2

“What about this one?”

Dean took a second to sigh in exasperation before straightening out from the engine he was working on. His spine complained with a pop, and he had a passing thought that he was getting too old for this shit. He tried wiping the excess oil off his hands with an already saturated rag and walked around the open hood of the truck to where Charlie was perched Indian-style on the workbench. Dean's cell phone was in her hand, and he never understood how she was able to get into it, but he'd given up on trying to change his password years ago.

The radio next to her was softly playing Aerosmith, and it was still warm enough to keep the garage doors open. But there wasn't much of a breeze, hence the rattling fan strung up to the car lift currently occupied by a garish colored 2010 Ford Fiesta. Dean tried not to run his hands down his face. Between the engine oil, the sweat of exertion, and the weather, he felt sticky.

“Which one what?” he asked.

“This one.” Charlie held the phone out towards him so he could see. The dating profile of a pretty brunette girl with a nice smile was on the screen. Once she was sure he'd gotten a good look, she turned the phone back around and started scrolling.

"Lisa Braeden, _oooh_ ," she said, trying to make it sound enticing, like the woman was an all-inclusive cruise and all Dean had to do was guess the right price. “She's a yoga instructor. Sounds bendy. Studying alternative medicine at KU. Has a cat named Benjamin—.”

“I'm allergic to cats,” Dean reminded her.

Charlie huffed explosively and dropped her hands down to her lap. “Must you find flaws in everyone?”

“Shut up. I do not find flaws in everyone.”

“You kinda do,” she said. He knew she meant well, but it was annoying. He never should have told her he made an account on that damn app. Ever since she found out, she’s been hounding him. It wasn’t even that serious. He only went on it when he was bored, or desperate for a hook up. He preferred the old fashioned way: picking someone up at a bar—usually Harvelle’s—and not having to go through all the extra steps getting to know someone online first. It was a lot easier. Who said the Internet streamlines _everything_?

Besides, online dating sometimes felt like he was sifting through the sales rack of the human race.

But Charlie insisted on finding him someone who was “relationship material”—whatever that meant—instead of a one-night stand. And, over the four years he'd known her, he’d learned not to argue.

He met her in high school, the year before he dropped out. She was a grade younger than him, but somehow managed to get into his English Lit class. He'd been sitting in the back of the room on the first day of the new school year, trying to avoid his teacher from the offset, when a loud redhead bounded into the room and sat down in the empty desk in front of him. She annoyed the living hell out of him at first, but somehow managed to wiggle her way into Dean's heart and life.

Fast-forward four years; she's still just as loud and chatty, only now she’s studying computer science at the college instead of distracting him in English class. She still annoys the crap out of Dean, but he couldn't imagine life without her. He loved her—even when she forced him into doing things he didn't want to armed with nothing but pouting eyes and a puppy dog face.

“She seems pretty awesome,” Charlie told him hopefully. “Besides, she's your type.”

Dean scoffed. He was done with this conversation. He turned his back to her and returned to the engine of the crappy old truck. “And what exactly is my type?” He tried to forget about the vague image of blue eyes and dark hair that his imagination supplied in answer to his own question.

“A pulse.”

“Hey!”

“What? Am I wrong?”

He considered it, and figured she had a point. She didn't see it, but he pulled a face and shrugged in agreement.

“And she's _super_ hot,” Charlie continued with her pitch, her tone turning wistful.

Recalling the woman’s picture, Dean couldn’t argue with that. He grunted as he worked, “I know. Why are all the good ones straight, right?”

“Uh, not even remotely. That's why they're the good ones. By definition, they aren't straight.”

Dean had to laugh.

“So, am I swiping right?”

He sighed again. She wouldn't stop until he agreed. “Fine.”

“Yay!” A second later, she declared, “You matched!”

 _Great_. Now he’d never hear the end of it from Charlie. She’d force him to message Lisa. Hell, she was probably typing up an intro right now.

As if he didn’t have enough problems—the biggest one of which he was ignoring and hoping it would go away. Maybe, if he avoided Gordon for long enough, his debt would be forgotten.

That sounded like a great plan to him.

Phase two of that plan was finding a member of the royal family on that dating app and marrying rich. It was totally foolproof! Of course, phase two might be a little hard after Gordon kills him and throws his body into the city dump, but true love always finds a way.

“You should talk to her!”

“Charlie—.”

He didn’t know how to tell her that it was a lost cause, because _he_ was the one who wasn’t relationship material, and he’d never met anyone who made him want to try to be. Luckily, he didn’t have to say anything.

“I'm hearin' an awful lot of talking out here,” came a gruff voice from the garage door. Dean looked over his shoulder as Bobby walked inside, adjusting his ratty hat as he did. “You ladies done gossiping?”

Dean shot a glare at Charlie, who mocked innocence. “Ask her.”

Bobby didn't ask her. “Well, this truck needs to be finished up by the end of the day, so I'd get to it.”

“There's always time for love, Bobby,” Charlie chided sarcastically.

She got the perplexed, pissed off reaction she was going for. “Time for what now?”

Proudly, she said, “I'm finding Dean some romance. He's on a dating app.”

“A dating—?” Bobby started to yell, but he thought better of it. “You know what? I don't want to know. Just do it off the clock.”

Charlie put Dean's phone away and hopped down from the workbench. “Fine, fine. I'm out anyway.” She rolled her eyes. “Homework.” She put one strap of her Pikachu-shaped backpack over her shoulder and started out of the garage. Before she was gone, she turned around and offered them the Vulcan Salute. “Later, bitches.”

“Bye, Charlie,” Dean said, smiling fondly after her.

“See ya,” Bobby told her and, when she was out of earshot, shook his head and grumbled, “Somebody ought to teach that girl how to speak to her elders.”

“Aw, what's the matter, Bobby? She offend your delicate sensibilities?” Dean teased.

“Somebody ought to teach you, too,” Bobby maintained, but he didn't look like he was going to be the one to do it. He walked over to the truck and looked over Dean's shoulder as he worked. “Still. She may have a point.”

Dean side-glanced up at him. “A point?”

“About you. Finding somebody.”

He’d had about enough of this for one day. “Christ, Bobby. Not you, too.”

“Well, she does. What are you, gonna live under your daddy's roof forever? You know Sam ain't. And it's not like Mrs. or Mr. Right is gonna stroll through the door here any time soon.”

Dean felt the back of his neck heat up, and he tried to hide it by channeling that energy into frustration. “Just drop it, alright? I'm fine on my own for now.”

One of Bobby's skeptical eyebrows lifted into the rim of his hat.

“I'm fine!”

“Uh-huh. If you say so.” He didn't sound convinced, which was annoying because neither was Dean. “How's it going with this hunk'a junk, anyway?”

Dean was happy for the change of topic, but didn't really know how Bobby wanted him to answer. “Crappy. That's how,” was what he settled on. He faced Bobby and leaned against the grill. “Honestly, Bobby, you know I don't like giving up on an engine, but this one’s a lost cause. I fixed her up best I could, but I wouldn't be surprised if she broke down again in a week. It'd be better if we put her in the scrap yard out back.”

Bobby peered into the engine and appeared to agree, just at a glance. Dean was often amazed how he could do that, and he couldn't wait until the apprentice became the master. Bobby had taught him everything he knew about cars. Dean had been running around this scrap metal yard, playing hide and seek in the trunks of the cars, for as long as he could remember.

“Yeah, can't argue there,” Bobby said. “But when I went to go tow it, the owner was very specific: fix her up.”

Dean understood that, even if it was crazy. After all, people probably called him crazy for keeping up the Impala. It wasn't exactly a sensible car, especially in the winter. But old or not, Baby was in perfect shape. He was meticulous. This truck, not so much. The owner obviously didn't know their way around an engine.

But Dean tried his best for the truck. At least he’d managed to fix that annoying clicking sound the engine had been making. It sounded like the damn thing was about to set off a bomb.

“Who's the owner, anyway?”

“A paying customer, that's who,” Bobby said, agitated that Dean would even ask that question. “Paying a whole lot of money, too. So, if she breaks down again in a week, then we'll just have to see her again in a week.”

The shrill ringing of the landline sounded through the thin wall separating the garage from the office, interrupting their conversation. “I'd better go get that,” Bobby said, already walking out. Over his shoulder, he shouted, “Finish that thing up, would ya? Unless it's cutting into your _online dating_ time. Idjit.”

A few seconds later, the phone stopped ringing, and Dean heard Bobby’s muffled voice carry through the walls. Out back, Rumsfeld started barking, and the tinny music from the radio changed over to a commercial jingle. Dean closed the hood of the truck and rung the oil into his hands, knowing he’d done all he could do.

Then, there was a crunch of gravel behind him, and a voice called, “Hello?”

Dean turned around to tell the customer to go into the office if he needed help, but his throat got clogged around the words when he saw who had wandered into the garage. It was that Novak guy from the bar. Castiel.

Despite the unseasonable warmth of the day, he was in the same trench coat he’d been in that night, and he still had slacks and a button up on. It was a contrast to Dean’s grease-stained t-shirt and ripped jeans. Dean wondered if this guy had a weekend look.

“Oh,” Castiel said when his eyes—so damn _blue_ that Dean could see the color even at a distance—lit upon him. His posture straightened out. “Hello, Dean.”

Dean gaped. He hadn’t expected a Novak to remember his name. Weren’t they too busy thinking of new ways to monopolize the town?

Holy shit, was that why he was there? To buy Bobby’s garage? It was probably one of the only things in Lawrence that wasn’t theirs.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Dean heard himself say. He hadn’t meant to say it aloud. Castiel looked taken aback—or, as taken aback as his stoic face could get. Really, his eyes briefly flickered to the side before looking back at Dean.

“I mean.” Dean tried to find a way to rephrase what he’d said. He leaned against the truck again, folded his arms across his chest, and landed on, “What are you doing here?” Oh well. At least he took the “fuck” out. What more could be expected of him?

“I’m here to pick up my truck,” Castiel told him, pointing to the vehicle Dean’s ass was currently against. “Which you’re presently reclining on.”

No way that was right. Novaks were supposed to drive Maseratis and Teslas or whatever. They weren’t supposed to drive ugly old Ford pick-ups with wooden stake sides. Dean was sure this had belonged to a farmer or something.

“This piece of shit is _yours_?”

Okay. So, maybe Dean needed some lessons in tact, because Castiel looked truly affronted now.

“I don’t think it’s a piece of shit,” he defended. It was kind of too easy, actually, getting him worked up. Dean felt a weird sense of wanting to tease him more.

He picked himself up off the truck and took a few steps closer. “Uh, hate to break it to you, buddy, but yeah it is. Thing’s ready for the scrap heap, and you sure as hell don’t know how to take care of her.”

Castiel sighed heavily, and rolled his eyes so fiercely that Dean was almost able to feel the air shift. “I don’t see how any of that is your concern if you’re getting paid for your services. Perhaps I should go somewhere else next time.”

“Yeah, maybe. ‘Cause we ain’t for sale.”

“Sale?” Castiel tilted his head to the side questioningly. It was actually kind of endearing, and Dean felt something in his chest tighten. He turned around and wandered back to the truck.

“Yeah, sale. You know—as in, there’s gotta be something in this town your family doesn’t own.”

“I don’t wish to buy this auto-repair shop. If I did, you’ve certainly changed my mind,” he said. “I would never want such an irate, clearly unhinged staff member such as yourself under my employ. I couldn’t possibly risk my family’s reputation in such a way.”

Dean looked around sharply, mouth open in a mixture of shock and offense. “ _You’re_ . . . unhinged,” he sputtered.

Castiel went on as if Dean hadn’t said anything. “What are you doing here, anyway? I thought you worked at that bar.”

“Yeah, before college kids like you got us shut down,” Dean scoffed, even though it was only technically true. Dean was a little, let’s say, lenient with his underage clientele. But what could he say? If a person could serve their country at eighteen years old, they could sure as hell knock back a beer. Besides, college kids will pay for any kind of alcohol. “That’s my other job. I work here, too.”

“I see.” Castiel looked a little too sympathetic, and Dean didn’t need that shit. It was patronizing, and it made him grind his teeth.

He distracted himself by shutting the hood of the truck.

“Yeah, _two_ jobs. Must seem like a lot to a rich kid like you who’s never worked a day in his life.”

Castiel shoved his hands into his coat pockets and gave Dean an assessing look that made him feel like he had x-ray vision. “Is it me you have a problem with, or just my family?”

“Gee, I don’t know. It might be that stick you have up your ass.” He walked to the workbench and picked up the car keys, causing them to jingle lightly.

Over the sound, he heard Castiel muse, “You’re the second person whose told me I have something in my posterior this week.”

“Shocker.”

Castiel sighed again, quieter this time. He must have gotten bored of the conversation, or maybe Dean had just won this round of verbal sparring, because he said, “Where do I pay?”

The truck door opened with a whine, and Dean hopped inside to drive it out of the garage. He put down the parking brake. “Office. Make a right outside the garage door.” He was Bobby’s problem now.

“Fine.” Castiel turned around, and Dean made a face at him behind his back as he turned over the engine. It burst into life smoothly and easily, and he felt a rush of pride at how good it sounded. Just outside the garage, Castiel halted abruptly. After a moment, he turned his ear ever so slightly to the truck, his shoulders rising and falling in slow breaths. At his sides, he unclenched his fists.

Then, he started walking again and disappeared around the corner.

Dean drove the car out and parked it in front of the office door, leaving it idling. He got out and hovered. Bobby had gotten off the phone, and he was standing behind the counter going over the bill with Castiel. Castiel leaned in, peering down his straight nose at the paper before him. Dean watched him in the unguarded moment, the way his long fingers pointed something out, the way his brows inched together when he questioned something, the slight angle of his tilted head as he thought. It was a sunny day, and his hair was a little lighter than Dean had remembered it being in the dark bar. His skin was a little tanner. His body was a lot more muscular, and Dean bet he’d be pretty lean under that boxy coat.

After a minute, he handed Bobby a credit card, and Bobby went over to the computer. Castiel blew out his cheeks and drummed his fingers on the edge of the counter as he waited. He said something then, and Bobby looked up in an expression akin to surprise before his eyes caught Dean outside. Dean couldn’t hear what either of them were saying, but he was pretty sure Castiel had told Bobby how rude he’d been before.

He’d definitely get reamed for that as soon as they were alone.

He avoided looking at Bobby and pretended to mind his own business. He rubbed nervously at the back of his neck and kicked some gravel around with the toe of his boot.

Momentarily, the bell above the office door tinkled, and Castiel emerged. Dean looked back up quickly.

“So, uh—,” he said awkwardly, trying to curb his attitude. He didn’t want to give Bobby more to work with.

“So,” Castiel echoed.

Dean pointed with his thumb over his shoulder. “Keys are in there. Try to go easy on her. That way, we won’t have to have this conversation next week, too.”

Castiel nodded dutifully. “If that’s what you want, Dean.” With that, he walked past him and climbed into the truck. Dean turned around on his heels, the gravel under his shoes shifting audibly, and watched the door slam closed. With the tires kicking up dust clouds as they spun, Castiel pulled the car out to the edge of the driveway, paused for an absurd amount of time for an empty road, and drove off.

Dean didn’t know why he stayed until the truck was out of sight.

He hadn’t even realized what he was doing until the door’s bell jingled again, knocking him out of his thoughts. Bobby settled beside him, looking between Dean and the road like he didn’t understand what Dean found so fascinating. He was being too quiet, and Dean just wanted the argument they were about to have to happen so he could get back to work.

“Alright, let’s hear it,” Dean sighed.

“Hear what?”

That didn’t sound right. Bobby was usually direct. He didn’t play mind games or hedge around an issue. Dean looked at him skeptically. “What, he didn’t tell you I was being a dick to him?”

Bobby didn’t seem too surprised by the confession, but he overlooked it. “Actually, he was singing your praises.”

“He _what_?”

“Yeah. Said no other mechanic’s ever been able to figure out why the engine’d been clicking like that. Said you managed to fix it. Even offered to pay extra because of it.”

Dean felt another wave of pride wash over him for the accomplishment, but there was something else mingling with it, too. Something softer, quieter. He looked back to the road where Castiel had driven away. He couldn’t put a name to the feeling.

He felt Bobby pat a firm hand to his shoulder, shaking him slightly.

“Good work, boy.”

He went back into the office after that, and Dean kept staring a little while longer before returning to the garage.

///

Having his truck back was a nice feeling. Nicer still was the engine sounding like it was supposed to. He wasn’t constantly on edge, praying that stepping on the accelerator wouldn’t cause the car to break down, or frightened that turning on the ignition would result in plumes of smoke drifting up from under the hood. It was as if Dean Winchester had given him a new lease on life, and he was grateful.

Of course, Dean was still a boorish human being, but he took great care in his work. He went above and beyond. That demonstrated a certain compassionate quality that Castiel wouldn’t soon forget.

There were many things about Dean that Castiel couldn’t seem to forget, in fact.

The smear of engine grease that had striped Dean’s cheek, running parallel with his jaw, for example. Or the way the sweat collected on his shirt at the small of his back. The sun on his bare arms and the way his eyes seemed a shade of green lighter than the last time Castiel had seen him. The freckles on his nose.

Castiel parked the car in the lot outside the university’s gym and grabbed his duffel loaded with boxing gloves, a change of clothes, and sneakers from the passenger seat. The parking lot was mostly empty, as many students were still in classes well into the evening. It usually became more crowded as Castiel was leaving.

However, it seemed he wasn’t the only one who built his schedule to avoid the rush; because there was Meg Masters, exiting the doors of the gym. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and she wore tight-fitting leggings and a tank top. Her face was flush with exertion and she had wireless headphones in. She looked distractedly down at her phone as she pushed the door open with her shoulder.

Castiel jogged the few last steps towards the building and caught the door to hold it open for her. She looked up, no doubt about to throw a passive _thank you_ before her eyes flashed with recognition. “Hey, _you_ ,” she said, taking an ear bud out. “You stalking me or something?”

Castiel’s face fell in concern. He didn’t mean to startle her. “No, I—. I’m not—.”

She chuckled. “Relax, Castiel. It was a joke.”

He settled, and pushed a smile that he hoped appeared humored. “Oh.”

She stepped out of the entranceway to avoiding blocking and traffic and instead leaned against the outer wall of the building. Castiel readjusted the strap of his duffel on his shoulder. He hadn’t anticipated this interaction to lead to a full conversation.

“But, you gotta admit,” she went on, “it’s a little weird I can’t go two steps without bumping into you.”

It wasn’t that weird when one actually thought about it. “Well, it is a small school. It’s not wholly unlikely that we should see each other in passing.”

He noticed that her eyebrow was raised, and realized her comment had been rhetorical.

“Or it’s a reminder for us to take that rain check.” She seemed to consider something for a moment, and then: “Hey, if you’re not busy tonight, how does dinner sound? My dad is making a meatloaf. It’s totally lame, but me, him, and my brother try to have dinner together once a week.” She waved the thought away loftily. “But he’s always cool about us bringing other people.”

Castiel looked around, as if he could latch onto something that might help him escape. He knew he said he wouldn’t object to spending time with Meg, but he didn’t count on her family. If he found it uncomfortable to hold a conversation with one of them, he couldn’t imagine the pressure he’d be under conversing with three Masters.

“I don’t want to impose.”

“No, please,” she urged, lifting herself up from the wall by her shoulders. “You’d be doing me a favor. All my dad and brother ever talk about are the Chiefs.”

He blinked. He wasn’t even there yet and he already didn’t know what they were talking about. “Is that,” he asked hesitantly, “a sports team?”

“Oh my God, you’ll be perfect,” she laughed. “So what d’you say? Seven o’clock okay?”

He paused, unable to think of a reasonable enough excuse not to. He did have studying to do, but he knew she wouldn’t take that as an answer. So, wrapping his fist around the bag strap digging into his chest, he nodded tightly.

“Cool.” On her request, he handed over his phone so she could put her number and address into his contacts. Handing it back over, she said, “See you then.”

Something inside him buzzed anxiously at the final smile she shot his way.

///

The sun had already set by the time Dean got home that night, bringing with it a chill and the iron smell in the wind. It wasn't even October yet, and despite the warmth of the day, winter was already making promises once the stars came out.

But, hell, it would probably be ninety-five degrees again in a week, so Dean was taking it with a grain of salt.

He shoved his apartment keys back into his jacket pocket once he was inside, his knuckles connecting with the now bent corners of Crowley's business card. He paused momentarily, flicking at the paper. Every time he did that, it took longer to snap himself out of the trance it put him in.

He'd managed to steer clear Gordon so far, but he probably couldn’t keep that up forever. He'd get his paycheck from Bobby's next week. The extra money Castiel gave would help, and Dad would be home soon, bringing money with him. But Dean knew there were more pressing matters than whether or not Gordon Walker put a bullet in his head. Like keeping the lights on, for example.

He told himself he had time, even if he didn't.

Deciding that was Future-Dean's problem, he hung up his jacket and went for the kitchen to see what they had to eat. His stomach grumbled unhappily, a gnawing emptiness twisting it.

Before he so much as opened the fridge, the front door clicked open. Sam came through, one strap of his backpack slung over his shoulder. "Hey," he called when he saw Dean hovering in the kitchen entrance. He kicked off his shoes into a messy pile next to the wall and let his bag slide to the floor.

"How was your day, honey?" Dean teased, disappearing fully into the kitchen now. There were still a few dishes on the drying rack from the last of the eggs they had for breakfast.

"Fine. I had that test in criminal law." Sam joined him soon enough, plopping down at the small breakfast table and kicking his long legs out in front of him. They jutted out so far, they basically reached the stove.

Dean raised a brow with interest, half looking over his shoulder as he plucked the plates from the rack and put them back into the cabinet. "Oh, yeah? How'd you do?"

"Okay, I guess." That probably meant he aced it. "What's for dinner?"

Dean was wondering the same thing. They didn't have much in the fridge, and the only things they had in the cabinets were stale potato chips, the last scrapings of peanut butter, and Lucky Charms that were basically just cereal dust and two rainbow marshmallows at this point.

He opened the fridge and leaned down into it anyway, hoping something would materialize. They had mayo and the heel-ends of a loaf of bread. There were also a few ketchup packets that may or may not have been stuck by some unknown clear substance to the plastic shelf. "We got . . . " He hummed and straightened out to check the freezer. "Some toast and—looks like, one mini Red Baron pizza. You want that?"

"Sure."

Dean took the soggy box from the back of the freezer and pulled the rock-hard pizza out of it. He moved towards the oven, kicking Sam's foot out of his path with the toe of his boot. Sam gave a sound of protest and bent his knees to make room.

"Wait, there's only one?" Sam observed like the genius he was when Dean set it on the stove while the oven heated up.

Dean sighed, ignoring his mounting hunger at the sight of food. "Yeah, Sam. I just said that."

"Well, I’m not gonna hog it. You wanna order a pizza instead?"

 _With what money?_ Dean almost snipped, but he bit it back. It was fine. He could always sneak back into the kitchen later and make some toast—but then there’d be nothing for breakfast.

Skipping one meal wasn’t going kill him. It never had before. They'd have money soon and he could go to the grocery store to restock.

"Nah, I ate over at Bobby's," he lied, trying to make the fact that he couldn't look Sam in the eyes seem casual. "He had some casserole he wanted to get rid of."

He really hoped his stomach didn't make any noises to give him away, but if he did he guessed he could blame it on Bobby's terrible cooking.

Sam snorted, apparently accepting the lie. "Yikes."

"You're telling me." Dean gave an exaggerated full body shiver and shot a look over his shoulder to see if Sam was laughing. He was fighting back a smile, not wanting to give Dean the satisfaction of knowing he was hilarious, and Dean counted it as a win.

Sam stood up. "Alright, well, I think I'm gonna hit the shower. Wanna call me when that's ready?"

He was already heading out of the kitchen when Dean said, "Sure thing, your majesty. You want me to eat it for you, too?" _If only_.

“Ha-ha.”

The oven pinged shortly after Sam left, and Dean placed the defrosting pizza onto the rack, the freezer burn crystals that had formed on top of the whey-cheese already melting. It was tempting his hollow stomach, so he walked into the living room to turn on the TV.

He was still flipping channels when his cell phone started going off. He jumped when he saw who it was.

"Dad?" he said quickly, his heart already pounding with anticipation. Dad never called unless it was to tell Dean something he didn’t want to hear. But maybe this time would be different. Maybe John was coming home sooner than Dean thought.

"Hey, Dean." There was music and clattering in the background, sounding like he was in a diner or a bar. John's voice was soft and tired over the line. Dean wondered what time zone he was in.

"You on your way home?" he asked, trying to sound bright despite the lump growing in his throat. He thought, maybe, if he spoke the words, they'd be true.

Of course, that flimsy hope was shattered when John paused for such a long time, bad news could only follow.

"Yeah, about that," and Dean didn't want to hear the rest. Half of his brain tuned out as it devoted its energies to keeping the emotion down, to stop the frustration and panic and desperation. To keep himself completely blank. "They need somebody to make a delivery out to Savannah. Figured I wasn't in the position to say no."

Dean's grip on his phone tightened. He took a second to make sure there would be no amount of smallness in his voice when he said, "Why not?"

Another paused, followed by a breath. And then, "That's the other reason I'm calling. Looks like I won't be able to send over any cash this month."

Dean felt like he was gonna hurl.

John didn't explain why. He probably felt like he didn't owe an explanation. But it was fine. Dean already knew why. He'd lost it all in much the same way Dean had. Either that, or on a barstool.

"But you two are alright, right? You still got some cash from Bobby's and Ellen's?"

For one split, fiery second, Dean wanted to tell him, no—they weren't alright. They were out of cash and there were bills to pay, necessities to buy, debts to get rid of, and—even though he'd completely lost his appetite—the need to eat.

But what excuse would he give for that? He’d have to tell John that he’d screwed up—twice. Once with Harvelle’s and again with Gordon. There was no way John needed to know about either of those things.

"Oh, yessir. We're good. Don't worry about us."

John seemed relieved. "Good. That's good, Dean. How's Sammy doing?"

At least he didn't have to lie about that. "Great. Yeah. Same old. Keeping his grades up."

"That's great," John said, but he sounded distracted now, like Dean's words hadn't really processed. He'd mostly been asking if Sam had broken any bones or been struck by lightning recently, anyway. "Hey, listen, Dean, I gotta go. I'll be home when I can, okay? Let me know if you boys run into any trouble."

Dean nodded dutifully before he realized John couldn't see him. "Yeah, you got it. See ya, Dad."

John ended the call, and Dean sat still for a long time, starring blankly at some infomercial about a neck pillow and holding the silent phone to his ear like it'd been glued there.

Eventually, the smell of burning reached his nose, and his chest leaped when he realized he'd forgotten about the pizza. He sprinted into the kitchen, hoping it wasn't too late.

It burned his fingers when he pulled it out of the oven and it was blackened along the sides, but still salvageable. But Dean could only focus on the negatives at the moment.

He took half a second to make sure he could still hear the shower running from the bathroom before he swiped furiously at the back of the chair closest to him. It clamored to the floor with a deafening bang, a crack springing through the planked wood of the backrest.

///

The address Meg had given him was nearby Holcom Park, not far from the campus. Castiel turned his truck off the highway and into a row of large, two-floor homes with decent-sized yards surrounding each of them. It was quiet in this part of town, and the only other cars on the street were the few luxury vehicles parked in front of the houses or in the driveways.

He squinted at the numbers on the mailboxes, muttering them aloud, until he reached Meg's. He parked the truck in front of it, killing the engine and peering at the windows of the house. The top floor seemed dark and vacant, but there were a few lights on the lower level to combat the dusty red and orange gloom of dusk falling around them.

He tugged at his tie to keep it from restricting his airways before letting out a breath. The entire drive over, he'd managed to refrain from thinking up an excuse to turn around. However, now that he was in the shadow of the house, his mind buzzed with nervousness.

He barely knew Meg. He thought it was odd that he should have to meet her family so soon into their friendship. (He hadn't even met Balthazar's family, even when they visited from England, and he'd known him for three years.) But perhaps this is what people do. He wasn't exactly replete with friends, and he supposed he never had been.

Perhaps this was normal.

Before the fist clenching in his stomach could protest too much, he got out of the truck and started for the front door. Dangling at his side, he carried a bottle of red wine by the neck, and decided to hold it properly when he felt it start to slip from his grip. His father and Michael had always told him that it was polite to bring something for the host, and Castiel couldn't think of anything the Masters might want other than a bottle that had been sitting in his cabinet for three months. In fact, he couldn’t imagine why they’d want even that.

Bright motion-sensing lights from the porch clicked on as he approached, causing him to startle slightly in the instinctive thought that he'd been seen. He shook his head at his own stupidity, and told himself that he wasn't there to sneak around. He was there because he was invited.

When he settled on the welcome mat within the glow of the brick porch, he paused momentarily, reminding himself to straighten his posture. He cleared his throat, intestines twisting in some kind of strange fight or flight response. He brought his hand to the iron knocker and banged it four times.

It didn’t take long for footsteps to sound on the other side of the door. When the locks began to click open, Castiel realized this was his last possible moment to run away. He wouldn’t have long. Maybe he could jump into one of the bushes . . .

The door swung open, and the first thing Castiel took note of was a pair of yellow-brown eyes. He blinked at the middle-aged man before him, the same man he’d seen going into Michael’s office just days ago. Meg never mentioned that her father owned a business under Evangelist.

However, the man didn’t seem to recognize him. “You must be Castiel,” he said, a cat-like grin causing wrinkles to form on his cheeks.

“Yes,” Castiel said, shuffling a little in his shoes. “Hello, Mr. Masters. I brought wine.”

“Thoughtful,” Mr. Masters said as if he were pondering it over. He took the wine out of Castiel’s hand and rolled it in his own. “Or are you just trying to butter me up so you can date my daughter?”

Castiel blanched, not knowing what to say to that. That hadn’t been his intention at all. He’d only brought the wine in the first place because of Michael.

“Dad, leave him alone,” Meg’s voice came from inside, and she appeared next to him in the doorway. She was no longer wearing the gym clothes Castiel had previously seen her in, but her usual jeans and boots. She flashed Castiel another look that he didn’t quite know how to decipher.

“Ah, I was only teasing. Come on in, kid. Stay awhile.” Both of them moved out of the doorway to permit Castiel entrance, and he was instructed to hang his coat on the rack. The inside of the home had a certain rustic feel to it. The walls on the entrance room were paneled with dark wood, and stag antlers jutted out from plaques on the wall on either side of the door. Castiel spotted a few fishing rods, their hooks dangling sharply from the poles, and muddy rubber boots propped up next to the coat rack.

They walked further into the house, towards the barn style kitchen of dark mahogany cabinets and stone countertops. A magnetic knife strip, lined with glistening silver butcher and chef knives and two-tined forks, was on the wall between the stove and rod iron range. In the room next to it sat a long, glossy dinner table overlooked by a mounted buffalo head and an iron chandelier.

The entire house was fragrant with cooking meat, and from one of the other rooms, Castiel heard a shout that nearly startled him before he realized it was the cacophony of a sports game on the television.

“So, Castiel, you from the area?” Mr. Masters asked conversationally as he took the steaming meatloaf and potatoes from out of the oven. Meg went to one of the cabinets and pulled out a serving plate.

Castiel opened his mouth to respond, but Meg beat him to it. “He’s a Novak, Dad.” She looked up at Castiel, a prideful kind of victory in her eyes.

Mr. Masters paused what he was doing and looked up as if he were seeing Castiel for the first time. “You don’t say,” he responded after awhile. Then, he snapped his fingers as if he’d just remembered something. “You know what, I knew you looked familiar. I think I saw you the other day at the offices, right?”

Castiel nodded. He hovered awkwardly in the kitchen, not knowing if he should sit down at the island counter or continue to stand. Should he offer his assistance setting the table? “Yes. I didn’t know you did business with my family, Mr. Masters.”

“Mr. Masters,” he mocked, pointing the knife in his hand over at Castiel. “We’re not that formal here. Call me Azazel.”

Castiel wasn’t very comfortable with that. He’d always been told to call his elders by Mr. or Ms. unless he knew them very well. Still, he nodded curtly, and resolved not to call Azazel by any name for the rest of the night.

“And yeah, me and Mikey do some business together,” he continued while sliding the meatloaf from the pan onto the serving platter. Castiel wondered if he, or anyone else for that matter, had ever called his brother “Mikey” to his face, and how they got out of that situation with their limbs intact.

“What kind of business?”

“What’s that? Oh, pharmaceuticals. I won’t bore you with the details.” He turned to Meg. “Take this to the table. I’ll go get the other one.” He disappeared into another room of the house, walking towards the sound of the television set.

Meg picked up the platter, and nodded towards the stack of dinner plates she’d piled up on the counter. “Wanna do me a favor and take those?”

He followed her into the dining room, and was happy to have something to do with his hands as they set the table. He asked, “Why didn’t you tell me your father worked for my family’s company?”

She chuckled sardonically as she filled the glasses with wine from the bottle Castiel brought. “Your family owns practically everything. I kinda thought it was a given. And he doesn’t work _for_ your brother. He works with him.”

His brows creased into a thoughtful frown. He was going to ask in what capacity Azazel and Michael worked together. They rarely used subcontractors for their business, as their portfolio was broad enough that they didn’t have to, and Michael simply didn’t have partners. Even Raphael worked for him instead of with him.

However, Azazel and another younger man, at least four years Meg’s elder, walked into the dining room before he could ask.

“That’s my brother, Tom,” Meg introduced, nudging Castiel’s side. “You don’t have to talk to him.”

“Funny,” Tom said dryly before putting out his hand for Castiel to shake. They sat down to dinner after that, and passed the platter of meat and potatoes around the table. Castiel was seated across from the buffalo head, and he did his best not to make contact with its black, dead eyes.

“Who’s winning?” Azazel asked Tom as an aside.

“Seahawks,” Tom groaned.

Azazel made a face before turning his attention to Castiel. “So, Castiel. You a Chiefs man?”

Castiel white-knuckled his fork. Next to him, Meg snorted a laugh into her glass of wine.

///

As the rest of the week went by, Sam ate his meals at the dining hall on campus. Dean would come home from Bobby’s at the end of his shift to find Tupperware in the fridge filled with food that Sam had managed to smuggle out, because he’d figured out what was going on pretty much immediately. Maybe not everything, but definitely the part about them having no cash. Dean could never hide anything from him, no matter how hard he tried.

And he wasn’t about to complain in this instance. He didn’t know if he was just hungry, but that stuff they were feeding the college kids wasn’t half bad. Sam even brought home sushi one night.

When he got his paycheck from the garage, they had enough for rent and the bills, but there wasn’t much left over. Dean was more than relieved when he got the call from Ellen on Thursday that Harvelle’s would be open for business again the next day.

He was even more relieved to know he still had a job there. She only made him grovel a little.

Ellen must have inspected the bar five times—counting the cash in the register, making sure the glassware was clean and clear of water spots, going through the inventory binder, and even checking how much liquor was in the bottles on the shelves like Dean was about to throw some house party while she was gone. He was surprised she didn't break out a Sharpie and mark their levels.

He didn't even know what she was looking for. There was nothing in the immediate area that could help them if they got shut down again.

She hummed as she walked around the bar towards the tables. Dean was slicing up some garnishes on the cutting board, careful not to let their juices bleed out onto the bar, thinking it might give Ellen a conniption.

"Okay," she said for the hundredth time that day, but at least this time she sounded like she meant it. She placed her fists against her hips and nodded. "I think we're ready."

Dean paused, the knife still in his hand, and looked up through his lashes. His gaze slid over to the side then, to connect with Jo's. She was sitting at the counter with a textbook in front of her.

"No, see, Ellen, I've been ready for the last three hours," he told her. "I was just waiting on you."

Jo tried to stifle a laugh as Ellen fixed them both with a death stare. "I don't wanna hear any sass out of you, Dean Winchester. Your ass is still on thin ice."

Dean raised his hands in mock surrender, but he did feel pretty guilty. It had been a miracle that Ellen was able to reopen the bar so quickly, thanks to a friend on the Kansas ABC Board speeding up the process for new liquor license.

"I said I was sorry," he defended.

"You're gonna have to do a lot better than that." She stomped back towards the bar, face set in a scowl, and for a second Dean thought she was going to hit him. His muscles tensed in preparation, but all she did was lay her hands flat on the counter.

"You know what inventory we have downstairs?" she asked, sounding like she was drilling him.

Dean started chopping again just to have something to do. "Yup. All six boxes, plus the kegs."

"And you know where the new liquor license is if the cops show up again?"

He twirled the knife in his wrist in the direction of the register. "Over there. And they aren't gonna show up again, don't worry."

"They better not!" she shot back. "I had to pull a lot of favors to get that back so quickly. They shut us down again—."

"I know. It's my ass. Do you have _any_ faith in me?"

Jo snorted, her pen hovering over her notebook as she continued to stare down at her reading material. "Trust me, Dean, you really don't wanna know the answer to that."

Something in Dean withered, but he didn't let it show. He scooped up the quartered limes on the cutting board and deposited them into a container.

"That's not true," Ellen said, her tone and expression softer now. "It isn't that, Dean. You just have to be more careful—and learn from your mistakes." _There_ was the stern mom-tone again. Dean wanted to roll his eyes on principle. "No more letting underage kids in. You suspect anything, you double-check their IDs, got it? Hell, even if you don't suspect 'em, do it, anyway. Better safe than sorry."

Dean wondered if he could get away with feigned ignorance. _I swear, Ellen, she looked twenty-one._ Probably not. But the fact remained: bikers and sad divorcees just didn't tip as well as drunk college students.

He guessed it wouldn't matter, anyway.

"Won't the scanner do that for me?"

Ellen was silent for a beat too long, recapturing his attention. "It will," she hedged. Dropping her voice into a mumble, she added, "When we have it."

He scoffed, amused. "Hang on! You're giving me crap, and you didn't even get an ID scanner yet?"

"Ash is upstairs working on it now," she defended.

"Ash?"

"Yes, Ash. Anything he builds'll be just as good—if not better—than any of those expensive ones for sale."

"So, what you're saying is, you have more faith in Ash than you do Dean?" Jo instigated. Ellen shot her a dangerous glare. It only served to crack a grin across Jo's face. "Just checking."

Ellen ignored her by turning back to Dean. "Just—do your due diligence." She sighed, and drummed her fingers against the bar like she was searching for something else to yell about. She must have come up empty, because she said, shoulders and voice defeated, "You sure you don't need me to stick around?"

Dean threw back his head in a groan. "No, Ellen—god." He put down the knife and walked around the bar to shepherd her towards the door. "I'll be fine. Go home. Put your feet up. Take a Xanax."

"Boy—!"

"Just a suggestion."

She looked like she might argue again, but she relented. "Alright. Like I said, Ash is upstairs if you need anything. And call if you run into trouble."

"You got it," he told her as she turned around. He made pushing gestures behind her back, as if it would speed her up. Opening was in half an hour. It would be slow for a while, mostly an older crowd at first, but the younger ones would flood in eventually and she needed to be gone by then.

After all, he needed to make the most of not having a scanner while he could. It’s not like he was going to look for college kids, but if they decided to come in with pretty convincing fake IDs, that wasn’t his fault and he’d have no way of proving them wrong.

Ellen picked her jacket and purse up from a table near the door and called, "Come on, Jo. Let's get home."

Jo let out a sound of protest. "But I wanna watch Dean get busted by the cops again." Dean really did roll his eyes that time. She alone could get him raided if she stayed there past opening. She was only sixteen.

"Joanna Beth," Ellen reproved impatiently.

Jo grunted and slammed her books shut. "Fine."

When they were both ready to leave, Ellen said one more time, as if he hadn't gotten the point by now, "Call me if you need anything."

"Okay. Jeez. Goodnight."

When Ellen opened the door to leave, Jo spun around and followed her out backwards. She mouthed something like, _She's gonna whoop your ass_.

 _Get the fuck out_ , he mouthed back.

She sliced her finger across her throat before pointing it at him.

He gestured back with his middle finger. It only made her shoulders rumble silently and turn back around, her long blonde hair twirling out around her as she did.

The door closed.

Thank god that was over.

///

Castiel’s final class of the day had just let out, and he pushed outside of the lecture hall where the majority of his courses were held. A slew of his classmates passed by him, their heads in their phones as they scrolled through their music playlists or answered text messages. In accordance to their level of stress and apathy, some, like Castiel, wore proper clothing, while others were dressed in t-shirts and sweatpants with _Kansas University_ in bold crimson and blue down the sides.

He started towards the parking lot next to the building, adjusting his backpack on his shoulders as the laptop and notebooks inside became clunky. Across the street, the basketball arena was already lit up for training, and the school’s banner was flapping in the breeze on the pole next to the American flag.

Taking his cue from the others around him, he pulled his cell phone from his pocket and took it out of sleep mode. He never anticipated very many, if any at all, notifications, but it appeared that day was a rare occurrence. Balthazar had called him twice in the last hour, which was a bit worrisome. Balthazar almost never called him. He usually texted.

Castiel tapped on the notification and held the phone to his ear, listening to the line ring. After a few trills, Balthazar’s voice sounded. “Well, it’s about bloody time!”

“What’s wrong?”

“Wrong? Why would anything be wrong?”

Castiel took the phone away from his ear and stared down at the screen, wondering if he’d hallucinated the two missed calls.

“Where were you?”

“In class.”

Balthazar scoffed. “You and your classes.”

“We’re students,” he reminded him. As he approached his truck, he fished for his keys in his pocket. “Why did you call me?”

“Ah, right, yes. I was hoping you’d do me the honor of accompanying me to Harvelle’s tonight.”

Castiel nearly dropped his keys. They jingled loudly as he fumbled with them, and he eventually managed to get them back under control.

“Cassie? Everything alright?”

He shoved a key into the driver side door to open it. “Harvelle’s? I was told they’d closed down.” Dean had told him that. He considered the possibility that Dean lied to keep him away, but it seemed unlikely. Castiel would have found out eventually. The bar was too close to campus for him not to.

He’d assumed it would have taken longer for the establishment to re-open after what happened.

“It did. It’s back. There’s to be a grand re-opening tonight, or so I’m told. Care to join?”

Castiel’s kneejerk reaction was to say no. His mouth was open, taking in a breath, primed for the response. But he couldn’t get the word past his lips. He sighed out the air in his lungs and slid into his car. When he put the keys in the ignition, the engine turned over. It wasn’t clicking.

One hand still cradling his phone, he placed the other on the wheel and pondered Balthazar’s offer.

He didn’t want to go. But, also, he found that he really did want to go. Something inside him tugged him in that direction. He couldn’t say what.

“Castiel?”

He realized he hadn’t answered. “I’m here.” He pressed his lips together, knowing it would be better to refuse the invite and go along with his night as previously scheduled. It was better to keep to his routine, and to stay away from a bar that was probably only a few hours from being shut down again for multiple violations.

“Okay,” he heard himself say. He didn’t know how to take it back. The word had sprung like lava from a crack in the earth. It was out, and he couldn’t force it back in.

“Wait, really? Well, that was easy. I was expecting an argument. I had one prepared and everything.”

“Apologies for disappointing.”

The call ended shortly after that, with Castiel telling him that he would be home after he went to the gym.

He sat silent for a moment, letting the engine idle. Still no clicking.

The thought occurred to him, from somewhere unknown and unexpected, that he wished it would start up again so he had an excuse to go back to the auto-repair garage.

///

It was about three hours after opening. The older, early crowd was starting to thin out and the younger one was moving in. A few of them were legal already, Dean figured, but most of them were probably just shy of twenty-one. It was a smaller gathering than usual, probably because people didn't know they'd re-opened yet. Word would spread soon.

It better, anyway. Dean wasn't risking his ass for a handful of people.

Because there were so few customers, Dean was able to see two familiar figures walk through the door. He quickly turned away, heart lodging itself firmly in his throat and blood rushing in his ears, before they could catch his eyes.

"Dammit," he muttered. Drexel and Duke. How the hell did they find him?

Unfortunately, there was no one looking to order a drink at the moment, so Dean pretended to look busy by rinsing out some glasses under the bar.

He tracked Drexel and Duke's movements out of the corners of his eyes. They clocked him, but didn't approach the bar. Instead, they went directly to a corner table near the jukebox and slid into the chairs. They didn't take off their jackets, but they appeared to settle in. They barely spoke, and Dean could feel his skin chill and prickle under the weight of their stares.

They stayed that way for an hour and a half. Dean only knew because his pulse was counting every second. Strictly, he kept his eyes from straying to the corner of the bar, hoping that they'd go away if he just ignored them.

By that time, a few more students were filling the room, giving Dean a good excuse to keep from visibly noticing them. The bad news was, they were running low on vodka from the well. He'd have to go to the cellar to get more soon and, in order to do that, he'd have to go out from behind the bar. He didn't want to do that. He told himself, as long as he had two feet of wood between himself and Gordon's goons, he'd be safe.

It seemed like a flimsy bubble of protection as soon as Drexel and Duke made their move. They didn't bother to push their chairs back into the table as they walked over, sidestepping and twisting through the other patrons as they walked towards the bar.

_Shit shit shit shit._

His ribs threatened to crack under how quickly his heart was racing. He moved towards the closest customers he could find, flashing a shaky grin and hoping his voice wasn't quivering too badly when he asked, "You guys need anything else?"

They didn't.

He was out of ideas of escape. He looked down, lamely picking up and putting down a few bottles of varying weight from the well. He felt the moment Drexel and Duke leaned into the counter.

Dean swallowed hard, knowing he couldn't put this off anymore. Might as well face it like a man.

He brought his gaze up, smiling pleasantly as he said, "What can I get for you fellas?" Who knows? Maybe playing dumb might actually work.

Drexel sat down at the open stool in front of him, and Duke leaned in closer, resting his elbows on the wood. "What's the matter? Don't you recognize us?" Duke asked.

Dean feigned ignorance by pulling a frown and shaking his head. After a second, he made his eyes light up in fake recognition, snapped, and pointed at Duke. "We didn't used to date, did we?" he laughed.

"Enough, Winchester," Drexel told him severely.

 _Two feet of wood_ , Dean reminded himself. They couldn't do too much damage. He'd see them coming a mile away. He could beat them.

"Gordon wants his money."

Dean let out a heavy breath, dropping his shoulders and the act all at once. "Yeah, about that." He picked up a glass next to the sink and started drying it with a rag. "I don't have it."

"Too bad," Drexel told him pointedly. "You're out of time. Gordon wants it by tonight."

Dean ran his tongue over his lips in consideration. Forcing his voice to stay light, he said, "Well, you tell Gordon that I'd be happy to pay him back if he's willing to give me a more reasonable timeframe—."

Before he could finish, Duke's hand shot forward and grabbed Dean by the shirt, practically dragging him halfway across the counter. So much for two feet of wood.

Next to them, there were gasps and the frantic scraping of stools sliding against the floor as people dodged out of the way.

"I got a better idea," Duke said. "Why don't you come with us and tell him yourself?"

Dean's hold on the rim of the glass tightened, and he tried to figure out if he could use it to incapacitate Duke. But then he'd have Drexel to deal with, not to mention the kids all around them catching the whole thing on camera. The last thing he needed was for that footage to end up on the local news.

The other last thing he needed was someone calling the cops. He'd really get Harvelle's closed down for good. Ellen would never forgive him.

_Shit shit shit._

///

The line at Harvelle’s was much shorter than it had been the last time they’d gone, and Castiel assumed the police raid had deterred many people. That most likely wouldn’t last long; however, he was happy he’d at least have room to breathe inside.

Not that he had much ease of breathing at the current moment.

He pulled at his tie, partly because he needed something to do with his hands, and because he was second-guessing the decision to wear it. He wondered if he looked too put together, and if a simple button down would be more appropriate for the casual setting. Perhaps he should have just worn a t-shirt.

He looked at his reflection in the dark window outside the bar, and found his hair sticking up in all directions. Surreptitiously, he tried to smooth it down. It wasn’t working. As he was grooming, he convinced himself that he wasn’t trying to see beyond his reflection to the inside. And he certainly wasn’t attempting to check whether or not a certain employee was working that night.

The inside was too dark and the windows were alight with multicolored neon beer signs, anyway. There wasn’t much visibility. Castiel frowned at himself, seeing the lines pull down between his brows. Did he look too serious?

Behind him, Balthazar’s reflection changed from a transparent blur to something clearer as he leaned it. “My, my, Cassie. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to impress someone,” he teased.

Immediately, Castiel snapped upright. “What? Of course, I’m not. I was just . . .” He couldn’t find a good excuse.

“It’s perfectly alright,” he was assured. “But could all this preening be because a certain Miss Masters will be in attendance tonight?”

The line moved, and they both stepped forward out of the range of the window. The same frown lines as before formed on Castiel’s face. “She is?”

“Well, how should I know? I was asking you.”

This conversation wasn’t making any sense. “Why would I know?”

Balthazar huffed, and waved his hand about in circular motions. “Have you or have you not been spending more time with her?”

Castiel didn’t quite know what Balthazar was speaking in relation to. He supposed, yes, technically, he had seen Meg more in the last week or so than he had before he’d met her. But he hadn’t exactly thought about her when she wasn’t around. “I . . .”

Apparently, Balthazar wasn’t interested in a real answer, because he went on, “Well, I for one think it’s a good thing. It’s about time you sowed your oats around this campus.”

“I’m not sowing anything,” he avowed flatly. The line moved again. Castiel really wished he had another reflective surface. Maybe he should have worn a different tie.

“And why not?” Balthazar asked, looking askance at Castiel out of the corner of his eye. “You’re a red-blooded human being, after all. It’s only natural.”

A spike of shame punctured Castiel’s lung momentarily, but luckily he was saved from having to answer. They were next in line.

The bouncer at the door was different than the previous one, and he scrutinized their fake IDs for a heart pounding full minute before he let them inside. Once the card was back in his hand, Castiel’s nerves eased, but he still strode quickly through the door before the bouncer could change his mind.

Without his permission, his eyes anxiously and immediately shot towards the bar—and there he was. Dean was talking with two other men, both of whom looked older. They seemed to be in a heated discussion, and Castiel told himself to look away. He imagined Dean rubbed many people the wrong way, and that wasn’t Castiel’s problem.

But his gaze slid back over no matter how he tried to keep it from doing so. And he watched as one of the men grabbed Dean’s shirt and dragged him over the counter.

Balthazar had just been speaking of Castiel’s red blood, and he felt it begin to boil.

“Excuse me,” he threw over his shoulder at Balthazar, who was currently waving at someone further into the bar. He probably didn’t notice Castiel leave his side, but Castiel didn’t look over his shoulder to make sure. He stormed through the crowd.

///

“I can do that,” Dean said, just to buy himself from time. Duke let go of his shirt, allowing him to straighten out. They both looked at him expectantly. He pretended to be the ditziest person alive.

“Oh, you mean right _now_?”

Before either of them could answer, someone else walked up to Duke’s side. For a second, Dean thought he was completely outnumbered, until he registered who the newcomer was.

“Is there a problem?” Castiel asked.

“Castiel?” Dean heard himself say, but, apparently, Castiel hadn’t. Or, if he did, he ignored it. He didn’t even toss Dean a side-glance.

“Nothing that’s got anything to do with you,” Duke told him dismissively, and at least Dean agreed with him there.

Castiel didn’t. He narrowed his eyes. “Why don’t I determine that?”

Duke and Drexel shared an amused glance, as if they were equal parts annoyed and impressed by Castiel’s moxie. Duke ran his palm down his mouth and turned fully towards him.

“I _said_ , it’s none of your business, kid.” He reached up and flicked Castiel on the chest with his thumb and forefinger, like he was a gnat to be easily squashed. Castiel only reacted by looking vaguely downward. When his eyes swept back up, there was a neutral displeasure in them.

“Look, just get out of here. It’s cool,” Dean said. He didn’t need anyone else wrapped up in his bad decision-making. Especially a Novak. He’d probably end up in prison for something like that.

“Yeah, get going,” Duke chided. “Shouldn’t it be past your bedtime anyway?”

He went to flick Castiel again, but Castiel’s hand shot up to grab his wrist with all the swiftness of a snake going for its prey. Dean wished he could have seen the look on Duke’s face, but he had a pretty good view of the storm clouds brewing on Castiel’s features.

Half a second later, Duke was reeling backwards, hands covering his nose as blood trickled through the cracks in his fingers. Castiel had punched him—hard. One quick, well aimed pop to the center of Duke’s face.

The crowd of people all whipped back around to see what had happened, and Dean thought he heard someone yelp. A mixture of embarrassment and irritation spiked in his chest, because he didn’t need Castiel or anyone else fighting his battles for him. But that was quickly forgotten when Drexel started to get out of his chair.

He wasn’t even on his feet yet when Castiel shoved Duke to the side and grabbed Drexel by the back of the head. He slammed his face onto the bar with a loud bang that sounded over the music. A woman nearby screamed, and Dean jumped away from the impact zone by reflex.

Castiel pulled Drexel, dazed and with a busted lip, back up by the scruff of his neck. Cool as could be and with one eyebrow arched up, he said, “Get out.” When he let him go, Drexel wavered a little and stumbled to his feet.

Both he and Duke fled from the bar, an audience of eyes on them as they went.

Dean realized he was gaping. Full on wide-eyed, mouth open gaping. Slowly, his gaze tracked back up to Castiel. Dude hadn’t even broken a sweat. And that was saying a lot because it was suddenly very warm in there.

Slamming his jaw shut, he looked over at the door just in time to see the two assailants rush out of it. He figured he should say something to salvage a little bit of his dignity. He landed on, “Yeah, and stay out!” It didn’t make him feel any tougher.

Slowly, hushed conversation began to filter in around the music. It grew in volume as more people joined in, and soon enough everyone was speaking normally, their attention gone now that the show was over. Dean couldn’t get over it that quickly.

Castiel’s shoulders dropped, his body uncoiling, and he looked like he was about to turn away. Dean managed to train his features into a glower and say, “What the hell was that?”

“You appeared to be in trouble,” Castiel told him matter-of-factly, like he didn’t understand that normal human beings didn’t go around breaking other people’s noses. Dean seriously considered passing this guy’s resume to Ellen so he could become the new bouncer, but something told him Castiel couldn't be bribed with half the tip jar to let in underage patrons.

“And? It wasn’t your problem. I had it under control.”

Castiel raised his brows. “It didn’t seem like it.”

“Well, I did,” Dean retorted, anger flaring again. And maybe it was a lie, but he liked to give himself a little bit more credit than that. He would have figured something out. “And I don’t need you coming in here and getting into bar fights!”

Huffing, Castiel said curtly, “Fine. I’ll call us even and leave, then.”

“Even?”

“Yes.”

“For what?”

Castiel faltered a little, the hostility leaving his face. “You fixed my truck,” he said.

Dean blinked, taken aback once more. It was the damndest thing, but Castiel kept throwing curveballs at him and he was never prepared for them. He didn’t even think Castiel knew he was doing it. “It was my job.”

“You went above and beyond.” At his side, Castiel balled his hands into fists, and Dean saw something from the right side shake loose and drip to the floor. It made him soften.

“You’re bleeding. Here, let me see.” He held leaned over the bar, reaching for Castiel’s arm. Castiel swiveled away, but brought up his hand for his own inspection. He flexed his fingers out, and it looked like it took some effort.

“Yeah, you’re gonna need to get some ice on that before it swells up,” Dean told him.

“I’m fine,” Castiel maintained. “It’s much worse for those other two men, I assume.”

Dean wanted to tell him to quit bragging, but that sounded a little too close to friendly teasing. He sighed instead. “Would you just let me check it out?”

Castiel seemed to weigh his options momentarily, and then, tentatively, he reached his hand out across the bar. Dean gingerly took it in his own, the fingers of one hand folding around the wrist and the other hand cradling Castiel’s palm. The touch was gentle, Castiel’s skin soft and only a little callused, and his fingers were long and elegant; and Dean would have never believed they were capable of hurting anyone.

He felt Castiel go rigid, but he ignored it. And he ignored how intimate the touch felt. He focused only on the cuts scabbing over on Castiel’s knuckles.

His injuries weren’t too bad, just a couple of split knuckles that would heal in a few days. But the skin was already blooming with discoloration, which meant the swelling wasn’t far behind.

He very pointedly did not look up to meet Castiel’s eyes, but he could feel them on him. “This needs to be patched up,” he said, his voice sounding thicker than it had before. He dropped the hand.

“I’m—.”

“Yeah, _fine_. Got it. But you won’t be saying that in the morning.”

Castiel appeared to consider the words. He admitted, “It does feel stiff.”

Dean took that as his cue to walk around the bar. “Follow me,” he said, and led Castiel towards the door at the back of the room marked _Employees Only_. There was a rickety, dark stairwell leading up to another wooden door inside. Dean shot a look over his shoulder to make sure Castiel was still following him.

At the top of the stairs, he pounded on the door, hearing it shake under the force. “Ash, open up! It’s me.” He looked back at Castiel again, and when they met each other’s eyes, Dean gave a tight, awkward smile that he immediately felt like a dumbass for.

Why the hell was taking Ash so long? He probably needed to put on pants.

Dean knocked again. “Ash!”

“Relax, relax. I’m coming,” he heard Ash’s smooth, easy tone come from inside. The door creaked open just a crack, enough to show one half of Ash’s face. His eyes clocked Dean, and then moved to Castiel. He sniffed. Behind him, the room was dark but for the blue, flashing glow of the muted television. “Something I can do for you gentlemen?”

“Yeah, got a guy here with a busted up hand. I need to patch it up. Can you watch the bar for a sec?”

There was a pause, and then Ash opened the door fully, revealing himself in ripped, light washed jeans and an unbuttoned over shirt. He wasn’t wearing any shoes. “Bar fight? Righteous. Who won?”

“I did,” Castiel said before Dean had a chance to.

Ash looked him up and down, and then nodded his chin out. His mullet bounced in the motion. “Respect.” He turned back to Dean. “Ellen know?”

“No, and you aren’t gonna tell her,” Dean warned. “I’m surprised she didn’t fire my ass for what happened last time.”

Ash nodded, crossing his arms over his chest. “Yeah, that probably would have been the best option,” he agreed, not a hint of malice in his voice.

Dean wanted roll his eyes. “So, can you go downstairs or what?”

“Can do,” Ash decided after a pause, which he hummed into as he considered it. He pushed between them and started down the stairs, not bothering to put on shoes first. Then, he seemed to remember something, and half-turned back around. “Oh and, uh, don’t touch anything.”

Dean thinned his lips and raised his brows to show that he wouldn’t even dream of it. He’d done that once before to one of Ash’s inventions and got himself practically electrocuted. Never again.

With Ash gone, Dean grabbed Castiel by the elbow and dragged him inside the apartment with a huff. It was a small studio with a single skylight over in the corner, and it was more of an attic than an apartment. Making it a residence probably broke about a thousand fire codes, but Ash didn’t seem to care. In the center of the room was messy futon, covered in a nest of blankets and pillows, a box TV in one corner, and a desk piled high with scrap metal and Ash’s current project in the other. This one looked like some kind GPS-barcode reader hybrid. Dean guessed it was the ID scanner, but it equally could have been anything else. He didn’t ask questions.

“Your friend is a very strange man,” Castiel said as he let Dean manhandle him inside.

“Yeah, no kidding.” Dean brought Castiel to the futon and made him sit down on it. “Sit tight. And he wasn’t joking. Don’t touch _anything_.”

Castiel nodded dutifully and laid his upturned hand onto his lap. He was holding it by the wrist with his other hand, which must have meant the pain was setting in. Dean quickly went to the small bathroom attached to the apartment and sifted through the medicine cabinet for Band-Aids and some rubbing alcohol. When he found it, he went to the fitted kitchen, bypassing the pots and pans piled high in the sink, and took a bag of peas out of the freezer.

He returned to Castiel and sat in front of him on the edge of the coffee table. “Alright, let’s see it.”

“You don’t have to do this. I’m fine,” Castiel told him again. He was deliberately being difficult now.

Dean gave an explosive sigh. “Okay, He-Man, but you’re bleeding all over the rug, so humor me.” He held out his hands.

Slowly, Castiel placed his palm on top of Dean’s. Their skin was barely grazing each other’s, but Dean felt his stomach flutter. This touch was different than the one downstairs—even more intimate, there in the dark and quiet apartment. The music reverberated through the floorboards, rattling the loose contents on the kitchen counter. Dean wrapped his fingers around Castiel’s wrist to steady him.

He heard Castiel suck in a quiet breath, but he pretended not to.

He got to work dabbing the blood with a cotton ball soaked in rubbing alcohol. Castiel barely hissed at the sting.

“Where’d you learn how to fight like that, anyway?” Dean asked conversationally as he worked.

“I was enrolled in karate from a young age,” Castiel told him. “Once I’d had my fill of that, I moved on to jiu jitsu. Recently, I’ve been taking boxing lessons.” God, was there any method of fighting this guy didn’t know? He said it so casually, too, like any random person on the street would be able to do what he just did.

Dean raised a brow. “They teach you how to bash a guy’s head into a bar in jiu jitsu?”

“No. I learned that in Taekwondo,” Castiel said, expression blank and tone flat. Dean’s eyes shot up to him in surprise, and he wondered who the hell this guy was. But then he saw Castiel’s eyes searching his face expectantly, and Dean realized he was joking.

Dean looked back down at what he was doing, relenting, “That’s funny.”

“Thank you.”

He swiveled to put the pink stained cotton down on the table beside him and reached for the box of Band-Aids. He fiddled with the wrapper and asked, “So, why’d you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Kick those guys’ asses for me.”

“Oh.” Castiel looked down at their hands, too. He had really long eyelashes, and the way the light from the TV played shadows on his face made him all strong and pointed angles. “Someone had to, and you couldn’t.”

Dean opened his mouth, offended, about to protest, but Castiel stopped him.

“Not that you _couldn’t_ ,” he corrected. “But you’re working. You would have risked your job. Again.”

Dean eased his shoulders. It made sense—until he really thought about it. “Well, I appreciate it, but you’re still underage, right? Which is the whole reason this place got shut down in the first place. So, which is it, Cas?” He smirked up at him. “You want me to get fired or not?”

Castiel appeared a little shamefaced at that, but there was the barest of smiles lighting his eyes. An electric current hummed beneath the very top layer of Dean’s skin. “Not,” he decided. “I promise I’ll leave once we’re done here.”

Something twisted inside Dean’s chest, and he almost wanted to tell Castiel to stay. He didn’t.

When he was finished patching him up, Dean offered him the bag of peas. “Put this on your hand for awhile.”

Castiel took it gingerly, and placed it against the bandages. “Thank you, Dean,” he said, sounding more earnest than Dean had ever heard from anyone ever.

“Cool.” Dean stood up and collected the used cotton and wrappers off the table. He walked to the kitchen and threw them out. When he came back, he plopped down on the futon next to Castiel with a sigh. The TV was still on mute, but it was playing some talk show rerun on one of the local channels. He should have known this was the kind of crap Ash would watch.

On the screen, a gorgeous red headed woman sat in an armchair across from her guest—who Dean could only assume was some local politician or businessman. They were on a stage in front of a studio audience and, behind them, the logo _Angel Talk with Sister Jo_ was lit up in sparkling theater lights.

Dean pointed with his chin at the screen. “That’s your sister, right?”

Next to him, Castiel nodded, his eyes still ahead.

“Isn’t she like, the Dr. Phil of local television?”

When Castiel looked at him, his forehead was lined and his head was tilted just right of center. He looked like a puppy. “No, she isn’t a doctor.”

Dean didn’t know what the hell to say to that.

“And her name isn’t really Jo. It’s Anael. She chose the name after her favorite song. _Jolene_.”

Well, at least one of the Novaks knew a thing or two about pop culture. That was a relief.

Recovering, Dean asked, “You two close?”

Castiel shifted a little uncomfortably. “As close as anyone is to their siblings,” he said, but it sounded like it was a rehearsed answer—a non-answer. Dean felt a pang of sympathy in his chest. He couldn’t imagine not being close to Sam.

“I have another sister to whom I was closer. Or, I used to be,” Castiel admitted quietly. “We don’t see her anymore.”

Dean found himself staring at Castiel’s profile in the lowlight. He hadn’t even realized he’d looked away from the TV. There was something about Castiel that Dean gravitated to, just couldn’t look away from.

Not for the first time, Dean was struck by how handsome this Novak was. It was kind of ridiculous.

“Sorry, man. That sucks,” Dean answered, his voice just as low.

Castiel turned his head to look back at him, and they held each other’s gaze for longer than Dean had ever looked at anyone in his life. When he realized that, he cleared his throat and turned away. He leaned forward on the futon, and Castiel looked away, too, the spell seemingly broken.

“Anyway,” Dean said. “I should probably get back downstairs. Shouldn’t leave Ash with actual people for too long.”

He stood up, and Castiel rose to his feet, too. “Of course. Thank you again, Dean.” He took the bag of peas off his hand and offered it back to Dean.

“Why don’t you hang on to that? You should keep it on ice. And, hey, when you’re done, you could make pea soup or something.” Dean smiled as he added, “Think a fancy rich kid like you can figure out how to use a stove without the butler’s help?”

Castiel seemed humored as his eyes went downcast. “I think I can manage,” he said, a certain litany in his tone. When he looked back up, his expression was neutral again. “Well. Goodnight, Dean.”

Dean nodded. His throat felt fuzzy. “Yeah. ‘Night.”

Castiel turned away, and before Dean knew it, he was gone. It was suddenly easier to swallow.

Dean shook his head, telling himself to shove whatever was going on down. He reminded himself that Castiel was a Novak. Besides, it didn’t matter, anyway. He’d probably never see Castiel again—for real this time.

He turned his thoughts instead on what had happened downstairs before Castiel showed up. Drexel and Duke were gone for now, but it was only a matter of time until Gordon sent someone else after Dean. He needed to come up with that money. Fast.

The business card in his pocket felt like it weighed fifty pounds.

His fingers twitched to take it out; and, after a few seconds of deliberation, they got their way. He stared down at the name and number, his gut telling him that dialing it would be one of the stupidest things he’d ever done.

But, hey, he never claimed to be a genius.

He took out his phone and punched in the number, then held it to his ear. For a long time, there was just the shrill ringing from the other end. Dean bounced on his heels, muttering _come on come on come on_ under his breath. Part of him hoped it would go to voicemail.

Once he was sure no one would pick up, the line cut off mid-ring. There was a slight shuffling and then, “Crowley.”

Dean considered hanging up, but only for a split second.

“Yeah, this is Dean Winchester. Uh, from the poker game the other night?”

“Ah, Mr. Winchester. I’ve been expecting your call.”

He tried to ignore the bruising feeling those words made settle against his skin.

“What might I be able to do for you?”

“You said you had a job for me?”

“Yes, that I did.”

Dean set his jaw, forcing himself to be brave and push forward.

He said, “I’m in.”


	3. Chapter 3

That Tuesday, Castiel picked Claire and Jack up at the normal time. The main room of the orphanage was decorated with black and orange streamers, paper ghosts, and half a dozen already-rotting pumpkins from the previous day’s activities. Donna told him that she and Jody had taken the children trick-or-treating around town, and chortled as she showed him pictures on her phone of all their costumes.

Claire had been a superhero. Jack was dressed as a prince, a gold-colored paper crown on his head. Even though it was the day after Halloween, Jack still wore it, and refused to take it off even when they reached the park.

There was a chill in the air, the bright reds and dull browns of the leaves scattering in the short bursts of wind. Castiel pulled his trench coat tighter around him, and had a feeling his fingers would go numb mere minutes after he let go of the children’s. Soon, it would be far too cold to entertain them at the park.

Claire and Jack rushed off to the slide, and made a bet as to who could slide down faster. Castiel tried to tell them that Jack would ultimately win because he was smaller and weighed less, but Claire wouldn’t listen. She told him to time each of them, and Jack had to hold on to his crown during each one of his turns.

After they tired of that, they had a snack, consisting of apples and some of the Halloween candy they’d gotten the night before. Jack then started building a castle in the sandbox as Claire went to the swings.

“Castiel, watch how high I can go!” she yelled at one point, pumping her legs back and forth as fast as she could in order to gain air.

“Careful,” Castiel called to her, keeping his focus on her in case she tried to jump off and fly.

“Bet I can wrap myself around the pole!”

He shot her a weary but stern look. “Do _not_ wrap around the pole,” he warned. She gave him a face that seemed to relay _you’re no fun_ , but he was satisfied that she’d listen. Another breeze hit, combing through his hair and wrapping the tails of his coat around his legs. More leaves rustled off the trees and twirled in the air before landing on the grass.

The swing set squeaked steadily as background noise as Claire continued to play. The unoccupied swing next to her twisted in the gust.

He looked around to check on Jack’s progress with his sandcastle.

The sandbox was empty.

“Jack?” Castiel said, his eyes scanning the rest of the park—the seesaws, the tree house, the merry-go-round. All vacant. Movement caught his eye on the opposite end of the lawn. He looked up. Jack’s paper crown had flown off his head in the wind, and was still being carried by it as it rolled and fluttered along the grass, just a bit too quickly for Jack to catch it.

They were both headed straight for the road. A line of cars zipped past, paying no mind to the child headed straight for them.

“ _Jack_!”

Castiel took off in a dead sprint, bolting out of the playground and across the lawn at full speed.

Jack had reached the sidewalk separating the road from the green. The crown flapped up into the air, arching before coming back down again. Another car passed quickly, and the crown rolled over the roof. There was a second car not far behind that.

He wouldn’t make it in time.

But then, seemingly out of nowhere, a blur of brown leather and blue jeans dove in from the other side of the street and scooped Jack up by the torso. Jack’s legs went flying in a circular motion as he was spun around and fell in a heap on the sidewalk. The car blared its horn as it whooshed by.

Castiel could hear Jack’s cries already.

He came to a halt at the edge of the sidewalk, where Dean Winchester was still on the ground, his arms around Jack for safekeeping and Jack’s small back atop his chest. He was blinking and coughing, like the fall had knocked the air out of him and he was only now regaining it.

Castiel’s heart was slamming against his ribcage, and his breath was coming out in short, labored bursts, not so much from the running but from the fear. He knelt down quickly next to them and ripped Jack out of Dean’s hold, getting him to his feet.

Jack’s face was beet-red and he was wailing loudly, scrubbing at his tear-filled eyes. He was scared, which was fair because Castiel was terrified.

“Are you alright? Let me see,” Castiel demanded, pulling Jack’s hands away from his eyes to inspect him. He seemed okay—no blood or missing limbs. Castiel breathed. He was fine.

“Come here,” he whispered, pulling Jack into a hug. Jack settled a little, but still sniffled against Castiel’s chest.

At that point, Claire joined the group, looking as white as a ghost. Dean sat up and shook his head wildly to right himself.

“He okay?” he asked, his voice rough as he indicated Jack. Castiel looked up at him, really focusing on him for the first time that day. There was a reusable grocery bag on the sidewalk next to him, a few cans of beer rolling out of it. Castiel never thought he’d be so happy to see Dean.

He went as far as to silently thank God for him.

He nodded. “I think so.” He leaned back, putting his hands on Jack’s shoulders and clutching him tightly. “Don’t ever do that again.”

Jack sucked in a tripping inhale. “I’m—I’m sorry, C—Castiel,” he stammered, the tears starting up again.

A pang of guilt sliced through Castiel’s heart. He hadn’t meant to upset Jack further. He hadn’t even been angry, really. He’d just let his emotions get to him. He tried to reel them in, to regain control and detach himself from them. But he found his pulse was still pounding too loudly to allow it.

Before he could say or do anything, Dean said in a cooing voice, “Hey, hey, don’t worry, man.” He picked himself up from the ground and crouched down to be level with Jack. Jack turned to him, but didn’t stop crying.

“We’re not mad. We just don’t want you to get hurt, okay?” Dean told him, and Castiel wondered why he hadn’t thought of saying that aloud. Dean made it sound so simple.

Jack nodded a little.

“Streets are for cars. They’re not a great place to play. But you know what is awesome?”

Jack shook his head, still looking miserable.

Dean pointed back to the playground. “You see those monkey bars over there? Think you can climb ‘em?”

Both Claire and Jack looked around, and Jack shook his head again. “Too high,” he said.

Dean gaped, feigning shock. “Too high?” he echoed. “For a brave kid like you? No way! You just gotta learn how to do it. C’mon, I’ll teach you.”

Claire bounced up and down excitedly, already having forgotten about her foster brother’s brush with death. “I wanna learn, too!”

Dean stood up and picked his grocery bag off the ground. Castiel rose, too, watching Dean carefully. He found he was just as grateful for him in that moment as he had been before.

It seemed Dean had a knack for fixing Castiel’s messes. First his truck, then his hand, and now this.

“We can all learn,” Dean promised, and lifted his gaze to Castiel’s. Castiel could only stare back. “If Cas here says it’s okay.” He flashed a bright, toothy smile.

“Please, please, please!” Claire and Jack chanted, pulling on Castiel’s coat. Jack wasn’t crying anymore. He looked down at the children and nodded stiffly. They squealed, and each of them grabbed one of Dean’s hands and practically dragged him to the playground.

Castiel looked back at the road, where the forgotten paper crown was tattered and flattened on the tar by a vehicle’s wheel. He tried to push the incident from his mind, but he was still too shaken. As he trudged after Dean and the children, he heard Dean saying, “Whoa, slow up! You’re too fast for me!”

“Hurry!” Claire said as she continued to tug him.

“What are your names, anyway, kids?”

When they got to the jungle gym, Castiel stood off to the side. He watched Dean first help Claire up the ladder to the monkey bars. She was still too short to reach them, so he hoisted her up by the waist and told her to hang on. He kept her secured in his grasp as he instructed her to bring one hand over to the next bar, and then the other. When he thought she had the hang of it, he let her go. There was a heart-stopping moment when Castiel thought she’d fall, but she made it all the way to the other end. Dean was there to set her back down on the ground, praising her as he did so.

“I did it!” she yelled.

“You did it!” Dean said in the same excited tone. “High five! Ouch—you’re strong. Put that away.”

When it was Jack’s turn, Dean didn’t let go. He kept his hands on Jack’s sides, doing most of the work to carry him along the bars. Still, he cheered, making it seem like Jack was doing it on his own. Jack giggled loudly the whole way. Dean tossed his head back in laughter when Claire jumped up and said, “Again, again!”

Castiel felt the corner of his lips twitch. A heartstring tugged, too. But that was ridiculous. The heart was an organ used to pump blood. It did not hold sentiment, as it was reputed to do. That was all in the mind.

And still, he felt it in his chest.

He watched Claire swinging from the bars, Jack standing near the ladder and looking up at her as she focused on slowly getting across. The grocery bag was resting on the wood chips next to the ladder, too.

Dean came over to stand next to Castiel. He was breathing heavily from exertion.

“Cute kids,” he commented, and his voice was different than it had been a moment ago. With the children, it had been light and joyous. Now, it was back to its normal gruffness. He intrigued Castiel. Or no, fascinated. Castiel was utterly fascinated by him.

Castiel realized he hadn’t thanked him. So, he looked at Dean steadily and did just that.

Dean only shrugged, like it was nothing. “No biggie. The monkey bars always cheered my brother up when we were kids. Figured it might help Jack stop crying.”

“No, I meant . . .” Castiel looked back at the children. What if something had happened to them? What if Dean hadn’t gotten there in time? “Thank you for saving Jack.”

Dean shuffled a little bashfully, gaze downcast. He swiped his boot, kicked up some wood chips, and watched them scatter. “Yeah, well, you should learn how to pay better attention.”

There was no heat behind the words, and Castiel didn’t think Dean was trying to shame him. He didn’t know why he’d said it. Maybe because, Castiel remembered, he hated him and the entire Novak family.

Castiel looked at him balefully, trying not to seem too haggard by recent events. “They can be a handful at times.” Or, all the time.

Dean shot him a doubtful look, as if caring for children were the easiest thing in the world and everyone was supposed to know how to do it. “They’re kids,” he stressed, “not the Tet Offensive.”

Castiel hadn’t meant to, but he felt himself smile. Luckily for him, it was a small one, no teeth or parted lips; however, a huff of laughter did find its way out of his throat. He looked downwards to hide it.

And, when he looked back up, there was a strange expression in Dean’s eyes. Something like surprise and wonderment mixed with smug satisfaction. It was only there briefly, and then he rearranged his features again. He reached a hand up and rubbed at the back of his neck. Castiel looked back at the children, half because he wanted to make sure they were okay and half because it felt too awkward looking at Dean.

“So, they, uh—your niece and nephew or something?”

“Hmm?” When the question fully processed, Castiel answered, “No. They’re from the orphanage.”

Dean went quiet for a long while, and then said, “Oh. That—that’s cool.”

Castiel’s brows caved in and he looked back sharply at Dean. Just when he thought Dean was a decent person, he proved him incorrect. “You think it’s ‘cool’ that they’re parentless.”

“What? _No_! No, I meant—that—that’s cool _of you_. Hanging out with them and stuff.”

“Oh.” Perhaps Castiel should have understood that in the first place.

Another pause. Castiel shifted, not knowing what to do or say. He realized his fists were balled at his sides.

“Anyway,” Dean said in a kind of singsong tone. He took a step backwards and pointed his thumb over his shoulder. “I should, uh—.”

With a sinking feeling that he ignored, Castiel realized Dean was trying to leave. “Oh! Yes. Yes, of course.” Earnestly, he added, “Thank you again, Dean.”

“Yeah.” Dean took another backwards step and then paused. He opened his mouth to say something, but then closed it again, seeming to reconsider. He licked his lips, and the motion caught Castiel’s attention before he could stop it. He forced himself to look Dean in the eyes again.

Hopefully, Dean hadn’t noticed the blunder.

Dean said, “Hey, you need help watching them?”

///

Dean didn’t really know why he hung around. He told himself it was because Castiel was in over his head with the two kids, and he didn’t want to have to risk life and limb again when one of them slipped away and walked into oncoming traffic. It’d be safer for everyone involved if he just stayed put.

And, okay, maybe he’d been a little quick to judge Castiel. In his defense, from everything he heard about the Novaks, they were dicks. His mind wasn’t changing about that any time soon. But Castiel was—he didn’t know. Not like that. He didn’t seem like a dick, anyway. Or, he did, but not the pollute-the-water-supply and ruin-the-town-through-embezzlement kind of dick.

He was spending his free time with two kids from the orphanage, after all.

So, Dean found himself sitting on the swing set while Claire and Jack got dirty in the sandbox, the grocery bag of microwave popcorn and a six-pack discarded on wood chips next to the base of the jungle gym. He dug the toes of his boots into the dirt beneath him and gripped the chains on either side of him, twirling back and forth to cross the links over his head. He remembered taking Sammy to parks just like this one when he was a kid and catching him by the legs at the bottom of the slide.

Next to him, Castiel remained still, hands folded on his lap and looking straight ahead at the kids with a barely-there smile on his face.

Dean watched his profile out of the corners of his eyes for a while, trying not to make it obvious. Castiel looked content here, just observing, being on the outside of whatever game the kids were playing as they squealed with delight. He seemed to actually want to be there, not like this was some chore he had to do to save face for his family. Dean looked over his shoulder for any newspaper photographers hiding in the bushes, ready to maintain that the Novaks were fine upstanding citizens that aided their community, but found none.

“So, how’d you get roped into babysitting, anyway?” Dean asked, breaking the silence. Castiel half-turned his head to show he was listening, but kept his eyes on the kids. The corners of his lips turned downward into a thoughtful frown.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, it’s not like you actually _want_ to do this, right?” Dean clarified, trying to find a way to reconcile this Novak with the deeds of all the others. “What, do you gotta log in charity hours or something with the company?”

Castiel’s frown deepened, his forehead lining with it as he turned fully to regard Dean. “I don’t work for the company yet. Why would I have to participate in its volunteer projects?”

“Yeah, but this _is_ one of their projects, right?”

“Yes, we do fund the orphanage,” Castiel told him, still looking like he didn’t really understand what Dean was accusing him of. “But I _do_ want to be here. I’ve always been preferable to Evangelist’s community outreach programs.” He turned back to the kids. They were digging a hole in the sand with colorful plastic shovels like they could make it all the way to China. “And two of my brothers—Raphael and Uriel . . . my father adopted them when they were children from the Mills’ Orphanage.”

Dean blinked at him, trying to figure him out. He came up empty. “Oh.”

He looked back down at the wood chips. Maybe _he_ was the dick.

“So, they, uh—they all volunteer there, too?”

Castiel shook his head, frowning. “No, just me. I like helping.” After a second, Castiel continued, “I always hoped I would be able to run that division of the company. To organize more events and work with different non-profits, not just here in Lawrence but in the rest of the state, too. But . . .”

Dean looked up again, and found Castiel staring down at his hands and rocking slighting back and forth on the swing.

“But?” he prompted.

Castiel sighed and shifted, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. Dean dipped forward, too, mirroring his position.

“Everyone in the family has worked in the higher offices of the company. It’s our job to oversee the others.”

Dean shrugged, not seeing why that was an issue. “So? It’s not like you don’t have siblings to deal with that. You should do what you wanna do.”

Castiel squinted at him, giving him another one of those intense, soul-searching stares that Dean couldn’t break away from. He still couldn’t figure out if he saw it as a challenge, a contest, or something else.

But there was something about Castiel. He was transfixing. And when the hell did Dean start using words like _transfixing_?

“Do you really think it’s that easy?”

Dean let out a breath of laughter, at a loss. “I dunno, man. Kinda. I mean, it’s not like you’re the genie from _Aladdin_ pre-third wish.”

Castiel looked confused at that, and it only made Dean laugh more. He had no idea what Dean was talking about, did he? First he didn’t know who Elton John or Dr. Phil were, and now this?

“What, have you been living under a rock?”

“I live in an apartment.”

That was kind of adorable. “No, I mean . . . Don’t you listen to music? Go to the movies? Read books?”

Castiel straightened out again, seeming a little offended. “I read books,” he said, indignant. “I have an extensive collection of historical biographies and encyclopedias.”

God, this guy really needed to get out more.

“No, man. I mean _books_ -books. _Slaughterhouse 5_ , _On the Road_ —Hell, _Harry Potter_! Do have like, a favorite book?”

Castiel seemed to ponder that before saying, “I enjoy Benjamin Thomas’ biography of Abraham Lincoln.”

Dean rolled his eyes. Okay, so they were getting nowhere with books. “What about your favorite TV show?” He was almost afraid to hear the answer.

Castiel considered it for a moment, and then said, “I like _Nova_.”

That was something Dean could get behind. He sat up straight again. “Sweet. _Nova_ ’s awesome.”

Cas seemed pleased with himself then. He didn’t exactly smile, but his eyes twinkled and his expression softened. Dean had to look away from it as he remembered the _actual_ smile, no matter how small, he put on Cas’ face earlier. It’d made something in his chest shake loose.

Claire and Jack had apparently given up on digging their hole. Claire was standing up, wiping sand off her shirt, and Jack was yawning widely. It was getting late for kids their age, and they wouldn’t last much longer. That probably meant he and Cas would have to go their separate ways, too. He probably should get home, anyway. Sam was waiting for him.

He was supposed to be home a while ago. He’d stopped by the store to pick up snacks for Winchester Movie Night after work. He’d been walking back to the Impala, still parked at Bobby’s, when all this sidetracked him.

His eyes flashed to the grocery bag against the play set. The beer would be almost warm by now, if not for the chill in the early November air.

A thought struck him.

“Hey, you ever seen _Star Wars_?”

He turned back to Cas, who shook his head gently.

“Me and Sam are having a movie marathon of it tonight. Just episodes four to six. The other ones suck. Wanna come?”

Something in the line of Cas’ shoulders eased, and that soft expression was back on his face. One of these days, Dean would get him to actually smile again. “I’d like that.”

///

The Winchesters’ apartment was in a section of town that Castiel rarely frequented, and the inside of the building was much what he’d imagined it to be. There were cracked tiles on the staircase and missing poles on the banister; there were scuff marks and dents on the wall where furniture hit against it as tenants moved in and out; a light was out on the landing on the second floor. He could hear a couple in a heated argument through the thin walls from somewhere upstairs, their shouts indistinguishable. There was no elevator or doorman or even a modern video intercom to call up to the apartments from outside, and Castiel wondered if the lock on the building’s door actually functioned anymore.

But, as Castiel followed Dean into his unit, he couldn’t help but to notice how warm and inviting the apartment itself was. There were photographs of smiling people on the wall—many of them depicting a blonde woman, a man, and two young boys. There was one on the shelving unit in the corner, where a young Dean was proudly holding up a large fish in both hands after a fishing excursion, and one right next to it of a diaper-clad toddler with a full head of hair looking up at the camera. There was a professional portrait of the older man in military garb, and a velvet stand with a medal on it sat beside the picture.

There was a houseplant over by the only window in the living room, and its planter seemed to be half of an old barrel. The room was sparse of coherent décor, but there was an assortment of unrelated knickknacks on the shelves and tabletops—a deck of cards, a bronze Buddha statue, novels stacked up in a pile. There was a woolen throw blanket on the couch that had been balled up messily and left behind as if whomever left it there would return shortly. Next to the door, there was a laden coat rack that looked like it might fall due to its burden at any moment, and beneath it on the floor was a pile of shoes that had clearly been sloppily kicked off and forgotten to be buried under the disarray of overturned soles and knotted laces.

People _lived_ there; they didn’t just reside there. That much was obvious. It was a home, and it was completely unapologetic about that fact. Castiel couldn’t help but to compare it to the house he grew up in, with its high ceilings and white washed walls, its chandeliers and carefully situated artwork and vases on the marble counters that were never an inch out of place. Eight children had grown up in that house, and it never once looked it.

“Yo, Sam, you home?” Dean called as he toed off his boots at the door, not bothering to untie them first. They were added to the pile. Then, he shrugged off his leather jacket and hung it on top of another coat already occupying a hook. Castiel took that as his cue to take off his coat, too, but he didn’t know where to hang it. Each hook already had multiple layers on it, and he decided on the one that appeared to carry the least weight.

“Yeah!” came a voice from down the short hallway. Soon, a young but very tall boy walked into the room. He was lean with muscle, but his limbs were also gangly, and it was clear he wasn’t quite done growing. His hair was a long mop on top of his head, and he was brushing his bangs away from his forehead as he entered.

He paused when he caught sight of Castiel. “Oh. Hey. I didn’t know we were having company,” Sam said.

Castiel thinned his lips in a polite but self-conscious smile. He felt as if he were intruding suddenly.

“Kinda spur of the moment,” Dean told his brother. “This is Cas. Cas, that’s my pain in the ass kid brother.”

 _Cas._ That was the third time Dean had called him that. No one had ever called him that before; or, if they had, they hadn’t said the nickname to his face. Gabriel and, without even knowing Gabriel had come up with it first, Balthazar sometimes called him Cassie, but only when they were teasing him. Everyone else always called him Castiel.

But Cas? He wanted to say it aloud, to get a feel for it on his tongue. It sounded foreign to his ears, but also fresh, like his life was just now beginning with a clean slate. He thought he could get used to being called Cas.

“Ha-ha,” Sam said to Dean. Then, he walked closer and stuck out his hand for Castiel to shake. “I’m Sam.”

“Hello,” Castiel said, placing his hand in Sam’s, “Sam. I’ve heard a lot about you.” He knew this boy was precious to Dean, so he lifted his other hand and placed it on top of Sam’s. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Sam seemed a little thrown off guard by the comment. “Uh, oh-okay,” he stammered, his eyes darting to Dean quickly before returning to Castiel. “You, too.” Castiel let go of his hand, and Sam let it slip back to his side. “Well, uh—make yourself at home.”

He turned to Dean. “You get the popcorn?”

“Sure did. Only thing they were out of was pie. Sucks, right?”

Sam caught Castiel’s eye with a withering, put upon expression. He didn’t appear to share his brother’s despondency over the lack of dessert.

“I told him what we’re watching,” Dean said then, and unceremoniously shoved the shopping bag in his hand against Sam’s chest. Sam made an _oof_ sound and caught the bag before Dean let go. “Start making the popcorn. I’ll hook up my laptop to the TV.” He walked towards the hall, and threw over his shoulder, “And try not to burn it this time!”

Sam’s expression tightened in an apology as he regarded Castiel. “Sorry about him. He gets kinda crazy about movie night.”

Without Castiel realizing it, this new knowledge about Dean settled warmly into his chest. “I can see that.”

“So, you go to KU?” Sam asked as he moved towards the kitchen, and Castiel followed. They talked a little about school and their respective majors until the popcorn was finished cooking and Dean called them into the living room. Sam emptied the popcorn into a bowl, and took three beers out to the next room, where they settled down to watch the movie. Sam sat on the couch, and Dean made himself comfortable on the carpet, his back propped up to the cushion and his legs kicked out under the coffee table. There was room next to Sam on the couch, but Castiel found himself mirroring Dean’s position instead.

 _Star Wars_ wasn’t exactly Castiel’s favorite movie, he discovered as time went on, but he found it difficult to do anything but enjoy it. He supposed the effects were state of the art at the time the movies were made, and he could accept that he had to suspend disbelief while watching them, but there were some elements that were just plain incorrect. (The light speed, for example, would look exactly the same to the human eye as regular speed, instead of the stars becoming shooting lines of white, because they were still billions of light-years apart. Dean did not appreciate that fact when it was pointed out.)

Furthermore, whenever a character proclaimed “may the force be with you,” he had to fight down his Catholic upbringing urging him to respond “and also with you.” Each time it happened, something misaligned inside of his brain, and it was a rather jarring experience.

More jarring still was Dean. His eyes came alight during the space battles; he made soft “pew-pew” sounds under his breath to mimic the guns. He seemed to have memorized every line uttered by Han Solo, and mouthed them along with the movie, or, when he got very excited, shouted them a few moments before the character did.

It was a testament to Castiel’s will that he was able to watch the movie at all, because he couldn’t stop looking at Dean. Watching Dean Winchester watch a movie was an experience in and of itself, and it required his full attention. It also required him to force down smiles far too often.

He did like the Ewoks, though.

Three quarters of the way into the final film, Dean nudged Castiel in the ribs with his elbow, getting his attention. He nodded his head back to indicate Sam asleep on the couch, chin on his chest and body slumped. Dean snorted teasingly, and Castiel didn’t understand what the joke was, but he found himself humored regardless.

“Don’t even know how he sleeps on that thing,” Dean whispered as to not wake him, even though the television was on full volume and would wake Sam long before their voices did. “It isn’t even comfy.”

Castiel’s brow creased in a thoughtful frown. “I’m sure he’s comfortable enough.” It was hard to see how he couldn’t be. Castiel peered around the room, remembering the framed pictures and possessions on every surface. Something wistful tugged in his chest. “This place is very . . . lived in.”

Dean gave another snort, this one derisive. “You can say that again.”

Perhaps Castiel hadn’t conveyed his meaning correctly. Looking back at Dean, he clarified, “You misunderstand me, Dean. I like it here.”

To that, Dean looked shocked. Quickly, he rearranged his expression into something more guarded. “Yeah, right.”

“I do,” Castiel assured him. “Every corner is filled with aspects of yours and your brother’s lives. It’s . . .” He tried to find the right word. Whatever it was, it was the antithesis of the modernistic spaces he was used to. “Homey,” he landed on.

Dean paused, looking down at his lap and rolling his beer bottle between his hands. “Thanks,” he said softly. And then: “We didn’t always live here.”

Castiel gave him his attention, waiting for Dean to go on. After a long second, he did.

“In Lawrence, I mean. My mom was from here—me and Sam were born here. It’s always been home, I guess, but—.” He shrugged, and deflated in a breath. His eyes were still downcast, fascinated in twisting his hands around the bottle. Castiel watched the movements as he listened. “She died when I was four.”

Castiel blinked. He’d had no idea.

“And we just . . . really never stayed put after that,” Dean said, finally looking up. He turned a little, angling himself towards Castiel across from Sam’s knees, and Castiel reoriented himself, too. “Dad was in the Marines. That’s how he met my mom in the first place. He was stationed in Lawrence for a while. And, after she died, he got reassigned. We bounced around to a few places. You know—the Carolinas, Mississippi, Colorado, Chicago. San Diego for a few months. That was cool.”

That would explain Dean’s accent; or, as it were, amalgamation of American accents. His voice was clipped with some words, easy with others. It was slow and deliberate or fast-paced and hurried. It was slangy, reminiscent of crowded cities, or drawl, like molasses.

“The summer before Sammy’s freshman year of high school, he got deployed overseas,” Dean continued. “Packed us up and moved us back here to stay with Bobby.”

“The man from the garage,” Castiel said, just to clarify. It wasn’t necessarily a question.

Still, Dean answered, “Yeah, that’s him. Stayed with him for a few months until I found this place. Since then, we’ve been living in the lap of luxury you see before you.”

Castiel wondered what Dean was expecting him to say to that. Maybe nothing. He’d ended with a joke, but it was forced. Castiel heard the longing like a current beneath ice.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “It must have been difficult growing up that way.”

“Nah, it’s cool.” Dean waved it away. His smile was slow-growing and his eyes were gentle. “Tell you the truth, sometimes I miss it. New town every few years, new people. I could do whatever. No one expected anything of me. I mean, this is good, too. I love it here, and Sam loves it here. It’s home, right? But sometimes I feel kinda boxed in. Out there, it was more . . .”

He grasped for the word. Castiel found it. “Free.”

Dean’s eyes snapped back to his from whatever far-off place they’d been. “Yeah.” He nodded thoughtfully. “Dad still gets that.”

In truth, Castiel hadn’t thought much of Sam and Dean’s father. As far as he knew, he wasn’t in the apartment, and he’d never heard Dean speak of him. But now, he was curious. Perhaps he was still in the military. “Where is he?”

“On a delivery route,” was the answer. “Yeah, he retired from the military after he got back home, picked up a job as a long haul truck driver.” He clicked his tongue flippantly. “He comes by when he can. Calls every couple weeks.”

Castiel saw right through that. “But you miss him.”

It wasn’t a question, either. He thought of his own father.

Dean blinked, thrown. Then, his expression turned introspective. “Yeah.”

Castiel supposed it was his turn to share. Dean had been open with him, and he thought he’d like to do the same. He’d like for someone to know him. He’d like for someone to care and listen and understand. He thought Dean could be that person.

“My father is gone, too,” he said. Dean glanced up at him like he’d expected to hear anything else. Castiel pulled a taut smile. “He doesn’t call or come by.”

“Oh.”

“And my mother also died when I was young. It was a few months after my birth. She, um—.” He looked down. Perhaps he should find a more socially appropriate way to say what happened, but he was never very good with euphemisms. He only had the facts, hard and cold, as his father told them to him when he was old enough to understand. “She suffered from postpartum depression. She overdosed on her medication.”

“ _Jesus_.”

Dean held his gaze, horrified at first, and then steady and weighted. Castiel tried not to let the emotion in, to keep his feelings about his mother and father chambered in the deep recesses of his mind. Maybe it was the sleepy atmosphere of the dimly lit room, or the swell of music from the screen, or their hushed voices, or Dean’s eyes—but Castiel found it was hard to stay detached. Soft wisps danced in his chest.

“Damn. And you said you had a sister that . . .?” Dean cleared his throat into his fist, interrupting himself. “Never mind. I didn’t mean to—it ain’t any of my business.”

“No, it’s okay.” Castiel thought he might want to talk about Anna—and Gabriel. None of his siblings ever wanted to bring them up, and he found, once he began talking about them, he didn’t want to stop. He told Dean about Anna’s long red hair and bossy attitude, her leaf collection that was now collecting dust in the attic of their family home; he told him of the games they used to play and the nights they shared curled up with a flashlight under her blanket. She’d read to him from their father’s books on history.

He told Dean about Gabriel. About the pranks he used to play on their siblings, always pulling Castiel into them as his accomplice, even when Castiel was too young to comprehend what they were doing. About the candy and chocolates he always hoarded in his pockets. About the park he used to take Castiel and Anna to when he was a teenager and they were still children. It was the same park Castiel frequently took Claire and Jack.

He told Dean about how they both left. About Anna’s cards. About Gabriel’s disappearance.

It was strange—the things one tells strangers. But Dean didn’t feel like a stranger. Not anymore. Castiel had a sweeping feeling that he’d been there, sitting on Dean Winchester’s floor in front of his television, for a very long time. Possibly his entire life. He felt like he could tell Dean anything, every secret, every doubt, every fear, and all of it would be forever held between their two souls.

Dean listened the whole time.

When Castiel was finished, Dean said, “Shit, Cas, that—.” He shook his head. “That’s really unfair.”

Castiel let his gaze drop. He’d never thought of it that way. It simply was what it was. His mother’s death was God’s will, according to the priests. His father’s absence, as with Gabriel and Anna’s departures, were due to their own reasons, as Michael said when they’d first left.

But, in the quiet parts of his heart, he agreed with Dean. There was no justice to it.

“Well, hey, their loss, right?” Dean said, clapping his hand to Castiel’s shoulder. It startled Castiel momentarily. Dean had never casually touched him before. And he couldn’t help but to think, against every odd, some kind of trust was developing between them.

“Their loss?” Castiel echoed. It seemed like he’d been the one on the losing end.

Dean stammered a little, seeming as though he didn’t know he’d have to elaborate. “Yeah. They’re the ones who left, right? You don’t do that to family. If it makes you feel any better, I wouldn’t have ditched you.”

Castiel felt his lips part slightly, his insides doing a somersault.

Hearing what he said, Dean scrambled to correct himself. His face started turning red. “I mean—you just—you seem like a pretty cool guy. You know. For a Novak. They’re missing out.”

Pressing down on the urge to smile again, Castiel turned back towards the television. On screen, the war had ended, and a party seemed to be in full swing. The characters danced and laughed and rejoiced at being alive. Castiel thought he felt the similarly in that moment.

Then, the end credits began to roll with a swell of music, and Sam woke up with a sharp intake of breath. Both Castiel and Dean looked up at him, and he sat up to run his hands down his face.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” Dean teased, seeming grateful to be back in familiar territory.

Sam grunted, and then said, “I’m going to bed. ‘Night guys.” He picked himself up and stepped over Dean’s legs in order to trudge towards the hallway. He yawned as he went, and Castiel felt himself do the same. He stifled it behind his hand.

“Sorry about him,” Dean apologized when Sam was gone. “He can be a grump when he’s tired.”

Castiel didn’t mind, especially when he heard the fondness hidden beneath Dean’s words. He always appeared so proud when he spoke of Sam. “You seem to take good care of him.”

Dean shrugged the compliment off. “I try, I guess. Don’t know how good I am at it. But Sam’s a good kid. Deserves better than he’s got.”

“I don’t know about that,” Castiel told him honestly. “He has you.”

To that, Dean’s eyes went very far away again. “He . . . Never mind.”

Castiel didn’t know what he’d said wrong. He wanted to reach out over the cushion and place his hand on top of Dean’s, if only to comfort the sudden mournful look on his face. He kept his hands to himself, and instead prompted, “Dean?”

Dean shook his head. “It’s nothing. He just got into some trouble a little while ago.”

Castiel’s expression became concerned. He couldn’t imagine what could be so bad as to elicit that kind of reaction from Dean. He didn’t know Sam, but from the way Dean talked about him, he sounded like a good person. They both were good people. “What kind of trouble?”

At once, he thought he’d overstepped. He was certain Dean’s temper was going to turn, and he was going to tell Castiel to leave. He was certain Dean would regret inviting him over in the first place.

But Dean only sighed down at his lap. “It was about a year ago,” Dean began, swallowing. “Sam, he—you know, he’s always been a really good student. Straight A’s, even though we moved around from school to school. He was a National Merit Scholar and everything. It was important to him.” He smiled, but it looked a little like a grimace. “And that didn’t change once we moved back to Lawrence. And, for a while, everything was good. He even met this girl—Jessica. They dated for a couple years. And she was great, man. Smart, funny. Just a really cool chick.”

Castiel couldn’t help but notice the use of the past tense.

“Anyway,” Dean went on, flicking at the unstuck edge of his beer bottle label. “Beginning of junior year, they’d been studying for the SATs. I mean, _constantly_. They were here every day after school quizzing each other 'til 1 AM. And Sam . . . I didn’t know it at the time. But there was this girl dealing Ritalin to the kids. Sam bought from her for a while, I guess. Just to help him focus. You know, he puts too much pressure on himself. And one night, Jess took some, too. And . . .”

He cut himself off to clear his throat. His eyes were a little redder than before, and he was blinking more rapidly. He pulled at his mouth.

“She took too much,” he whispered, voice raspy. “We didn’t know it at the time. She started saying she wasn’t feeling well, and she drove home to sleep it off. It was late. We said she could stay here, but . . . She, uh—.” His lips contorted bitterly. The label on his bottle was curling off now. “She crashed. Car flipped over, starting sparking. It was up in flames before anyone got there.”

Castiel didn’t know what to say. He felt as if he’d been punched in the gut, and it was difficult to capture any oxygen. “Dean . . .”

Before he could say any more, Dean gave a wet sound and said, “Sam blamed himself. Still does, I think. But it wasn’t his fault. It was just . . . I shouldda known what was going on. I should have kept a closer eye on him. When Dad found out he just . . .” He shook his head, mouth turning down bitterly. “I should have taken better care of him, of both of them.”

That time, Castiel couldn’t stop himself from reaching out and blanketing Dean’s hand with his. “It wasn’t your fault.”

Dean blinked down at their hands, lips parted and chest rising and falling in sharp breaths. After a moment, he withdrew his hand out from under Castiel’s and recoiled a little further away on the floor. Castiel regretted what he’d done. He knew the moment was fragile. He hadn’t meant to scare Dean off. He only wanted to comfort him.

“It’s getting late,” Dean said after a stretch of silence. “I think I’m gonna hit it.”

Castiel understood. He nodded, and tried to ignore the hints of rejection swirling around his chest. He picked himself up from the carpet and went for his coat on the hooks next to the door. Behind him, Dean collected the empty beer bottles and let them dangle at his side, fingers shoved inside their openings to keep them from falling, as he met Castiel at the door.

He opened it when Castiel had his coat back on.

“Thank you for inviting me. This was . . .” He didn’t know how to finish that, especially now that he’d ruined whatever relationship was building between them.

“Yeah,” Dean agreed. And then he said something Castiel hadn’t expected him to: “We should do it again sometime.”

Castiel couldn’t recall a day he had to fight back so many smiles in such a short span of time. “Yes,” he responded. “If that’s what you want, Dean.”

///

Dean left the apartment not long after Cas did, making sure to peek into Sam's room to make sure he was still asleep first. He wasn’t, but was instead laying down in the dark texting when Dean caught him.

“Stop sexting and go to bed, would ya?” Dean teased.

Sam flipped him off before saying, “Cas leave?”

“Yeah. Couple minutes ago.” He leaned his shoulder against the doorjamb to make himself comfortable. He was tired, but he still had too much to do before his day was over.

“Where’d you meet him?”

Dean scoffed at the randomness of the question. “What are you, a cop?”

Sam shrugged under his covers. “I’ve just never heard you talk about him before.”

That wasn’t strictly true. Dean ran his palm across the back of his neck and said, “Sure you have. I told you about him. That night Harvelle’s got raided, remember?”

“You never said anything about—.” Sam paused, and Dean knew he’d connected the dots. The sheets ruffled as he sat up. “Wait. He’s not . . .?” Even in the dark, Dean could see his shit-eating grin. He laughed, “Cas is a _Novak_? And _you_ invited him to movie night? Are you feeling okay?”

Dean wasn’t having this conversation. “Go to sleep,” he ordered, and Sam’s playful laughter followed him out when he closed the door, leaving it open just a crack. Sam always yelled at him to close it all the way these days, but it was a force of habit. Dean had been leaving Sam’s door open a crack for seventeen years.

He busied himself by cleaning up the popcorn kernels from the couch cushions and putting the empty beer bottles in the recycling bin. Then, fifteen minutes later, he checked up on Sam again. He was fast asleep this time, so Dean figured now was his chance to leave. He put on his jacket and picked up his boots, not putting them on until the front door was closed softly behind him.

He took the Impala towards downtown, double-checking the address Crowley had texted him a few hours ago. It was pushing midnight, and he figured he'd get there with a few minutes to spare before the designated meet time.

He circled the block outside the billiards bar just far enough away from the lights of the main strip—not that it would matter much, seeing as most places were closed by now, and most people were home safe and sound. Dean, on the other hand, was passing by abandoned storefronts and closed down bodegas as the clock ticked down to 12:30.

He zoned out as he drove, his mind wandering back towards his apartment, where he and Cas had sat on the floor and completely ignored the movie playing on the screen. And the things Dean told him— _Jesus_. Normally, Dean would be kicking himself for spilling so much personal information to someone he barely knew.

Normally, Dean wouldn't have said anything at all.

He didn't know why he'd said all that he said. Maybe Cas just had a face he could trust. Maybe he was easy to talk to. Maybe Dean wanted more from him than the standard _how 'bout them Yankees_ small talk. Maybe Cas was different than anyone else he'd ever met. Maybe Cas made him want to try to build a friendship between them.

For a little while, Dean forgot that Cas hadn't always been sitting in his living room watching movies with him. For a little while, Dean forgot he was a Novak.

But he was.

With that thought in mind, he still couldn't bring himself to be sorry, even if it could come back and bite him in the ass later. Because Cas wasn't anything like the protesters and pissed off people ranting on the internet made the Novaks out to be. Maybe the rest of them were dicks, but not Cas. Cas was on his side.

It was two minutes to 12:30 before Dean knew it, and he pulled the car over to the curbside and headed into the bar. There wasn't anyone at the door checking IDs, so he breezed right in and took a stool at the far corner of the counter. It didn't take long before Crowley, decked out in a long black coat and expensive suit, appeared at his elbow.

"What'll it be?" Crowley asked without saying hello, and sat down next to Dean.

"Whiskey. Neat," Dean told him. Crowley waved the bartender over.

"One cosmo—add a cherry. And a whiskey for my fine friend here. Top shelf liquor only." When the bartender went to fill their order, Dean rolled his eyes at Crowley's drink of choice. He didn't mean to be obvious about it, but Crowley caught it, anyway. "What?" he defended, not seeming very ashamed. "I have a refined palate."

"Yeah, that's one word for it," Dean snipped. He didn't want to be there any longer than he had to. "So, we gonna talk shop or not?"

Crowley gave a derisive kind of sound. "Not one for foreplay, are you? Shame. I thought you and I might have some fun." Dean let the comment slide, but he wished he already had his drink so he could distract himself with a sip. "Let's begin, then."

Before they got the chance, the bartender came back over and set their drinks in front of them. Crowley's had a mini-umbrella sticking out of it, and a maraschino cherry bobbed at the bottom of the martini glass. Dean was tempted to drain his drink in one go.

"As I explained to you before, the job's simple. In fact, you might call yourself something of an errand boy. I text you a meet up location, you come, pick up a package from me, take it where I tell you. Easy, no?"

Crowley's voice was smooth, but with an underlying burning in the aftertaste, like the finger of whiskey sliding down Dean's throat. He hissed in a breath against the sensation and quipped, "Oh, is that all?"

There had to be a catch.

"That's all." Crowley took another pull of his drink. He set it down on the cocktail napkin again before continuing, "In reward for your services, you'll get—hell, I'm feeling generous—fifteen percent per package delivered."

Dean wasn't sure fifteen percent was worth his time, or the risk for whatever shady business he was getting himself into. He snorted. "Yeah, right. What's that, twenty bucks?"

Crowley looked at him evenly. "Try half a grand."

Dean was glad he wasn't taking a drink that that point, because he would have sputtered it up his nose and made a fool of himself. "Half a _what_?" he blanched, eyebrows shooting up. In his surprise, he forgot to keep his voice down. "What the hell's in the packages? The Hope Diamond?”

To that, Crowley only stared, as if challenging Dean to ask the question again. It made Dean's stomach churn, and he realized he'd rather not know what he was delivering. It was probably better that way. He'd be able to have some shred of plausible deniability when the other shoe dropped.

"Alright, I get it," he said flippantly, waving it away. "Don't ask, don't tell."

"Precisely," Crowley agreed. He settled into his seat now that he knew Dean was game to turn a blind eye. "The more packages you deliver a night, the more you earn. Interested?"

Dean was ready to say yes. Or, at least, he had been on the drive over. But the details didn't sit right with him, and his fight or flight instincts told him to head for the hills.

"You still have concerns. I can see that," Crowley leveled. "You're more than welcome to get up right now and leave, secure in your delusion that you're somehow above all of this." He waved his hand around at the general vicinity, but Dean knew he wasn't referring to anything in the bar. "But, might I remind you, a certain Gordon Walker isn't known for his forgiveness."

Dean ran his tongue across his teeth, and swallowed down his fear and pride. "I'm good," he forced himself to say, despite his throat closing up in attempt to stop him. "Like I told you over the phone—I'm in."

A jagged smile formed on Crowley's face, and Dean thought he'd need a tetanus shot from just looking at it. "Wonderful. Welcome to the team. Shall we seal it with a kiss?"

Dean grumbled and leaned away, hiding his mouth in the rim of his glass so Crowley would get the message.

"Have it your way. A handshake, it is." Crowley extended his hand, leaving it between them for Dean to take.

It wasn't too late to turn back.

But, hell, yes it was.

Dean put his hand into Crowley's and shook it firmly, and he was just happy that Crowley hadn't asked him to sign his name in blood on a binding contract.

"So, when do I start?" Dean asked.

Crowley considered, and then said, "I'll have some products to move tomorrow night. Meet me here—out back." He nodded towards the door of the bar. "Eleven o'clock sharp."

Dean stood up, fighting the nausea in his stomach by knocking back the rest of his whiskey. Damn, that top shelf stuff was good.

"And, I should warn you, I don't like to be stood up," Crowley told him for good measure, as if Dean would really agree to this if he had any other option.

"I'll be there."

Crowley sipped at his drink, looking like he might be a while. Dean wasn't about to hang around and chat. Luckily, Crowley said, "Tootles, then."

"God, kill me now," Dean groaned, already knowing that Crowley was going to be the bane of his existence. He left without saying goodbye.

///

It was past midnight by the time Castiel, sleepy but pleasantly so, got home—only to find Meg sitting on his couch. She spun around as soon as she heard the door open, and wiped at her eyes. Her eyeliner was a little smeared, but it didn’t look like she’d been crying. Actually, she looked more irritated than anything.

He stood in the doorway, keys in his hands, unsure what to do.

“Castiel,” she said, like she was surprised to see him there and not the other way around. “Balthazar let me in.”

Castiel’s eyes moved back and forth across the room, clocking the dark galley kitchen and the closed door to Balthazar’s bedroom. “And where is Balthazar now?”

She shrugged. “He went out, I guess. Asked me if I wanted to go but . . .” Her eyes went downcast. Something was wrong.

“Meg,” he said, walking around the couch to stand in front of her. “What happened?”

She rolled her eyes. “My dad. We got into a fight.”

“Oh.” He wasn’t sure what she wanted him to do about that. “And you’re . . . sad?”

“No,” she answered suddenly, fire in her tone. “I’m _pissed_. He’s an ass.”

After that, she went quiet again, and he tried not to sigh. He didn’t know why she was there or what she was expecting of him. He sat down next to her and offered, “Is there something I can do?”

She smiled at that, even though it was small. “Actually, I was kind of hoping I could crash here for the night? I don’t wanna go home.” 

Was that all? He didn’t mind that. The couch was unoccupied, and apparently Balthazar had no objection to it. “Of course.”

Her smile grew, and she reached into his lap and slid her hands into his. They were chilly but soft, “My hero,” she joked.

He stood up. “I’ll get you some blankets.”

Then, he went into his bedroom and flicked on the overhead light before heading to the closet. He had a few spare sheets and a throw blanket on the shelf above his clothes, and he had to stand on his tiptoes to retrieve them. When he went back into the living room, Meg had taken off her jeans and over shirt so that she was only clad in a tank top and panties. Castiel awkwardly looked anywhere but at her as he handed her the blankets.

She snorted out a laugh. “Don’t be so modest,” she teased. She started spreading the blankets out on the couch. “I’m not a nun.”

“No, I—. I didn’t think you were—.” He cleared his throat, feeling a little flush. “Goodnight.”

“’Night, angel.”

He scurried back into his room as quickly as possible and closed the door behind him. He leaned against the door for a few seconds, shaking the image from Meg from his head. Once his mind was clear, he put on his pajamas and tucked himself into bed, and realized his thoughts had wandered elsewhere, quite far from the woman on his couch.

More specifically, they were back across town, with Dean. He wondered if Dean was still awake, staring up at his own dark bedroom ceiling, or if he was dreaming of spaceships and Jedi. He wondered if Dean spared a single thought about Castiel since he left.

Most likely not.

Still, Castiel found himself wanting to reach for his cell phone on his nightstand and text Dean, to thank him for the movie, and for everything else. He enjoyed Dean’s company, and he liked Sam. He thought he could become friends with the Winchesters. Maybe they were willing, despite his surname.

He clicked on his phone, the blue light making him squint in the darkness, and his finger hovered over the text message icon. But then he thought better of it. Dean was probably asleep. He would text him in the morning.

Setting his phone back down, he settled in against his pillows and forced himself to clear his mind. Eventually, he started to drift off, and was only vaguely aware of the sounds that had started up out in the living room. There was talking, and the soft rhythm of music put on low. Then, he heard a door creak open, and someone whisper his name. He barely registered any of it until his blankets were lifted up and a warm body slipped in next to him.

In his stupor, he thought it was Dean.

But then consciousness returned to him, bringing with it the true volume of the conversation outside and the feel of his mattress dipping next to him. He looked over his shoulder to find Meg situating herself under the covers.

She froze when she saw him awake. “Sorry. Balthazar got home. He brought some friends.”

Castiel blinked, not understanding for a brief moment until his thoughts caught up to him. He looked at the clock. It was after 2 AM.

He sighed, too tired to do anything about it. “Fine,” he said, and turned back over.

He felt Meg lay down completely, facing his back. He heard her breathing even out in the space between them. And then he heard, “Castiel?”

His eyes shot open again. It was becoming clear that sleep wasn’t an option that night. He rolled over to face her. “Yes?”

“Do you wanna know why I got in a fight with my dad?”

He didn’t really see why it was any of his business, but she seemed to want to talk about it, so he nodded.

“Okay, but you can’t tell anyone.”

Who was he going to tell? “You have my word.”

She let out a heavy breath. Not looking at him fully, she began, “He’s into some pretty shady shit. Like—illegal shit. I don’t even know what. I think he wants to keep me out of it.”

Castiel blinked. His first thought was of Michael. Why on earth would a man like that have any business with Evangalist? Surely, Michael didn’t know what Azazel did, but perhaps his business was a front for more illicit activities. Castiel should bring that suspicion to Michael and Raphael’s awareness.

“I keep telling him I’m old enough now to know what’s really going on,” she continued. “He’s a piece of crap, but he’s still my dad, right? Plus, I’m pretty sure my brother’s involved. But they just keep me guessing.”

Castiel could relate to that. His brothers never told him what really went on, either. The weekly family meetings were hardly an in-depth look at the business, and he knew next to nothing about his siblings’ personal lives. Sometimes, that fact nagged at him. Sometimes, it was incessant.

“Anyway, we got into it again earlier tonight. He said he’d trust me more when he thought I was worthy. Can you believe that?” She snorted out a laugh. “ _Worthy_. Like this is the friggin’ Middle Ages or something. Like, what does that even mean?”

He didn’t know how to answer. He shook his head empathetically. “I’m sorry he doesn’t trust you. But maybe . . . maybe it’s better if you don’t know.”

Finally, her eyes swept up to his. “Is that what you tell yourself? That you don’t wanna know what goes on in your family?”

He stared back for a few moments, pondering the question. He didn’t need to know what his brothers discussed behind closed doors; at least, not yet, not until he was a part of the business in earnest. Besides, there was a difference between a corporation and crime. He told himself that his family was on the right side of the law, and they were influential and beneficial to society.

Perhaps he didn’t know the full details, but he didn’t have to. All he knew was that they were his family, and he had a duty to them. He had no reason not to be loyal to his brothers.

And yet, the thought sat heavily on him. He rolled onto his back and sighed up at his ceiling. Perhaps he wasn’t the best person to be giving Meg advice.

She said, “I didn’t mean to dump that on you or anything. But—you know. Thanks.”

Before he knew what was happening, she slid up against his side and rested her cheek on his shoulder. Her arm slung itself across his stomach. He froze, not sure what to do. His heart rate sped up, and he wondered if she could hear it with her ear pressed against him.

She yawned. “’Night, Clarence.”

He knitted his brow together. Was she teasing him again?

“That’s . . . not my name.”

She let out a soft laugh. “Shut up.”

A few minutes later, she was asleep. He did his best not to move so that he wouldn’t disturb her. It was uncomfortable, and it took him another hour to doze off again. The last thing he remembered before falling asleep was the errant thought that he wouldn’t mind a head resting on his chest, as long as it belonged to Dean.

///

The next night, Dean met Crowley outside the bar and was given three packages to deliver to opposite sides of town. He almost griped about having to drive all over on his first night, until he remembered that it was a small price to pay for one and a half thousand dollars. He'd have Gordon's money in no time, and, with any luck, some to spare.

His first stop was a house right near Holcom Park, even though one of the other spots on the list was closer to the bar. But Crowley was pretty adamant that this address got their delivery first, so Dean figured it must have been some hierarchy thing among the . . . drug dealers? Probably. Counterfeiters? Could be. Traffickers? Shit, he hoped not.

Either way, he doubted he was going to meet the kingpin on his first night, but this guy must have been someone important to get home delivery—especially in a neighborhood with houses this big.

Nonetheless, the residential area unnerved him. What was Dean supposed to do if someone else answered the door, like a teenager or a pregnant lady? He didn't even know who the recipient was. What if he handed it off to the wrong family member? Was he supposed to pretend he worked for USPS or something, even though there wasn't a label on the package? Or did the whole family know about where their money was coming from?

He'd just have to wing it.

He pulled up to the house number Crowley had given him and killed the engine. The place looked normal enough—one light on in a room upstairs and the flickering glow of a TV flashing behind the curtains on the first floor. He never expected to find himself in a place like this when he agreed to work for Crowley.

He got out of the car and went to the trunk, checking over his shoulder to make sure the street was empty before opening it up. Momentarily, his curiosity got the better of him, and his fingers itched to tear open the packing paper and cardboard to see what was inside. He rattled the thought away, and shook out the buzzing under his skin. He picked up the largest package out of the three and slammed the trunk closed.

With it held between his hands for safekeeping, he started towards the house, not bothering to use the stone walkway and instead cutting right across the fresh, dewy lawn. When he got closer, a bright floodlight lit him up in white, blinding him momentarily.

"Son of a—," he hissed, throwing one arm over his eyes. He blinked spots out of his vision. His heart was slamming against his ribs now, and he had the irrational thought that this whole thing was some kind of sting operation and he was about to be arrested. But nothing happened.

For a couple seconds, he deliberated before deciding "screw it" and walking the rest of the way to the porch. There was an iron knocker on the door, and he tentatively lifted the handle and brought it back down. Once he was sure the coast was clear, he knocked harder.

He heard footsteps inside and realized his hands were sweating. Would he be expected to shake hands? Did people usually shake hands with delivery men? He didn't think he ever had. He wiped his right hand against his jeans just in case, and set it back on the side of the package.

The light in the entrance hall flipped on, illuminating the pebbled glass windows on the top of the door, and then the door swung open. A brunette girl who couldn't have been any older than Dean stood before him. She was in pajamas, and she looked normal, and kind of hot. Dean blinked at her, not sure what to do. He'd been expecting—he didn't know—Pablo Escobar, not someone who looked like her.

She raised a thin brow at him, seemingly having run out of patience. "Can I help you?"

"I—," Dean stammered, still wrongfooted.

It was then that a middle-aged man came up behind her, and he looked fractionally more like the kind of person Dean had been anticipating. Except, in the glow of the hallway light, his eyes looked almost yellow.

"I have a package for you," Dean said to both of them. He wondered if he should mention Crowley. However, the man looked like he knew what Dean was talking about. He stepped forward and said, "I got this. Why don't you head on back to your room?"

The girl gave him a heated look that Dean decided was none of his business, until she turned her eyes on him. Then, she stomped off down the hall.

Dean tried to joke, "Kids, huh?"

The man didn't laugh. He just took the package from Dean's hand. Dean continued to hover in the doorway, wondering if he was supposed to collect his pay there or if he'd get that later. Crowley never actually specified. He probably should have asked that question.

"Well," the man said like he didn't know why Dean was still darkening his doorway, "Bye."

The door slammed about an inch in front of Dean's nose, and he jerked his head back upon impact. The guy hadn't even said thank you.

"Dick," Dean said under his breath before brushing it off, and walked back to his car.

Once he got there, he opened the driver's side door, and his peripheral vision caught a flash of movement in the yellow light coming from the house's top floor. He stood half inside the door, looking up at the shadow of the girl framed in the window. She stared back at him.

Dean wasn't sure how long it went on for; all he knew was that he hoped he wouldn't have to deliver to this weird ass family again. He got into the Impala and drove off, not bothering to stop at the stop sign before peeling onto the highway.


	4. Chapter 4

There was a cramp in his wrist, stiff and more of a nuisance than it was painful, but Castiel had already shaken it out a few times. It hadn't made him any more comfortable. He ignored it and continued to try to make sense of the chapter he was reading, armed with nothing but a notebook, a highlighter, and a ballpoint pen. Some ink in the vague, smudged shape of letters was staining the side of his palm.

He'd been at it for hours, sitting at his usual table in the Charles G. Novak wing of the university's research library. It was in the back of the room, where he could be generally invisible to other people, and where he was far from any window, because he knew the crisp sunlight and bare November trees would only distract him from his studies. He couldn't afford that. Midterms were next week.

Castiel shook out his hand again, hearing the joints in his wrist crack under the movement, and blinked so that the text would stop swimming hazily.

Someone from the next table over cleared their throat. A few other students were scattered around the section, pages rustling occasionally as they studied.

Castiel felt someone approach the opposite side of his table, and before he even got the chance to look up, he heard a familiar voice speaking in a whisper as to not disturb the others. "Cas?"

Sam Winchester was hovering in front of one of the tan wooden chairs. His jacket was a little too big around his body, and he was giving Castiel a closed-mouth, disarming smile. His backpack was slung over one shoulder and there was a textbook tucked to his chest. "Hey. I thought that was you."

"Oh. Hello, Sam."

Sam raised his brows and pointed at the empty chair. "You mind if I sit?"

Castiel supposed it wouldn't hurt. He wasn't making any leeway with his studying, anyway. He gestured towards the chair in response to the question. Sam swung his backpack off his shoulder and laid it down before fitting his long limbs beneath the table.

"Reading anything good?" he asked as he fished his supplies out of his bag.

Castiel looked down at his book. He wouldn't exactly describe it as "good." He would most likely use the adjectives "tedious" or "exhausting."

"Only if you find accounting theories and practices entertaining."

Sam pulled a frown. "Sounds complicated."

"More complicated than," Castiel asked, reaching across the table and turning Sam's textbook towards him, reading the cover aloud, "Philosophy and Morality of Law?"

Sam shrugged, voice going up an octave in pitch as he said, "No, no, it's—uh, it's not too bad. I like it. Or, I mean, I will like it, once I get into the interesting stuff. Gotta get my pre-reqs out of the way first."

Castiel thinned his lips, hoping that his emotion wasn't showing in his expression. He was slightly envious of Sam for getting to choose his own field of study, and his own path. Castiel found his own material as dull as he had his prerequisites during freshman year.

From his bag, Sam pulled out a Ziplock bag of something crunchy and green, and Castiel jerked his head back in surprise, certain that it couldn't be what he thought it was. Dean had told him about Sam's past, but Castiel didn't know recreational drug use was in his present, too. He didn't mind it, really. Balthazar smoked frequently, and Castiel had even tried it once or twice. But not in the school library. What if someone saw them? What if Michael found out?

His eyes flickered back up to Sam's face, and Sam must have seen his reaction, because he let out a breathless laugh and said, "Dude, relax. They're kale chips."

Castiel blinked, not understanding. "Kale chips."

"Yeah. Homemade. Dean made them. I'm still trying to get him to eat them, though."

Castiel felt foolish. He had been so quick to judge Sam. He thought he might owe him an apology.

Sam opened the bag, and offered it to Castiel. "Want some?"

The student at the next table shushed them, and they exchanged a guilty look before Castiel reached into the baggie.

They remained silent for next few hours, both of them occupied with their respective studies. Sam was tapping a rhythm against his notebook pages with the butt of his pen as he worked, and Castiel found himself wondering if Dean had a similar mannerism.

It was comfortable. Castiel didn’t feel as if he had to fill the silence with small talk about the weather or any other inane topic that made his palms sweat as he fished for something— _anything_ —to say. And, even though they were each researching different topics, he felt as though they were working together towards the same goal.

Two hours into studying, Castiel went downstairs to purchase a coffee from the cafe in the library's lobby. He brought one back for Sam, too, and Sam seemed a little surprised by that at first, but then his expression melted into something grateful. Castiel felt the corner of his mouth twitch then, and a warm feeling spread in his chest.

He enjoyed Sam's company.

By the time the sun was a fiery orange line on the horizon, and the library had gone through its usual bell curve of empty to crowded to empty again, Sam let out a loud yawn, leaned back, and stretched his arms over his head.

"Man, I'm beat," he said. "I should probably get going."

Castiel felt a little disappointed at that, but he nodded. "Okay, Sam. Thank you for studying with me."

Sam laughed at that, like Castiel had told him a joke. "Thanks for letting me crash." He packed up his bag and pulled it back over his shoulder when it was zipped up again. He pushed his chair against the table, but remained standing over it, fingers drumming on the backrest.

Castiel looked up at him expectantly.

"Hey, you doing anything on Sunday?" Sam asked suddenly.

Castiel always had something to do on Sunday, but the importance of it suddenly paled in comparison to whatever Sam was about to ask him to do. "I . . . Why?"

"We're having a few people over to sit around and drink. We do it once in awhile. Dean makes tacos. Fries up his own shells and everything. He learned how to do it when we lived in Tucson for a while. And one of our friends makes margaritas." He laughed, "We usually have enough to feed an army, so we could probably use an extra mouth to feed. You want in?"

Castiel tried to bite back a grin. He did, in fact, want in. "I'll be there," he said.

"Great! People usually come by around ten, but don't feel like you need to be on time. Food probably won’t be ready until around one, anyway."

Castiel's stomach turned over after hearing the time. He would be missing church and the family meeting, but he didn't want to be late to the Winchesters’. He would feel like an outsider enough as it were without missing the first three hours of the party.

Besides, he didn’t want to be late. He wanted to spend time with Sam and Dean.

His skin buzzed, a thrilling rush overcoming him as he said, "Ten o'clock it is."

"Great! See you there," Sam said before departing, and although few words had passed between them, Castiel felt as if they’d bonded in the last few hours. That they might just be friends now.

With that thought in mind, he was too giddy to focus on his studies for the rest of the evening.

///

Dean didn’t give himself a single second to think about what he was doing before pushing open the door of the downtown bar’s back room. It was like jumping into a pool of water: you just have to do it, or else you’ll be standing around on the edge forever worrying about how cold it is.

Everyone around the poker table looked up immediately. Dean’s eyes latched onto Gordon, staring him down and not letting himself get intimidated. He’d let Gordon blink first.

Kubrick was also there, and so were Drexel and Duke. There was another guy Dean had seen a few times before, and he thought he went by the name Creedy.

“Winchester,” Gordon said, a toothy, shark-line grin lighting up his previously pissed off expression. “You got some balls showing up here without my money.”

“Who says I don’t have your money?” Dean shot back smugly, and he reveled in the surprised and—let’s face it—a little disappointed look in Gordon’s eyes. He went right up to the edge of the table, standing across from Gordon. The others were glaring at him tensely, just in case they’d have to be ready for a fight.

Dean really hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

Gordon scanned him up and down coolly. “You don’t say?”

In response, Dean went into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out a wad of cash. It was everything he’d earned on his runs for Crowley over the past week and a half—his payday for shoving packages into PO boxes, for putting himself in the stupid position of hand delivering them to dilapidated houses and shitty apartment buildings on the outskirts of town, for putting them in trash cans in alleyways for someone else to pick up. He didn’t know what was in the packages, but he was pretty sure he could add “drug mule” to his resume.

That is, if he ever made a resume.

He tossed the stack, held together by a rubber band, onto the table, making the poker chips jump and clatter and the cards scatter. “All five G’s.”

Gordon looked down at the money for a long time without picking it up. Dean hadn’t been expecting that, and it unsettled him a little. He’d expected Gordon to count it, but he didn’t. Dean doubted he’d go off his word alone, and he wondered now if Gordon was about to tack some bullshit interest rate onto it. He squared his jaw, and did his best not to tighten his fists at his sides. He didn’t want them to know how unsteady the silence was making him.

But then, Gordon laughed. It was slow to start, and then grew into something almost affable. The tension in the room vanished at once, and everyone around the table settled, Dean included.

“Well, looks like we’re square,” Gordon decided, palming the cash and sliding it towards himself on the table. “What do you say, Winchester? Want to try to earn this back?”

That surprised Dean, too. “You don’t think I’ll cheat again?”

Gordon hummed out the last remainder of his laughter. “You tell me.” He said it friendly enough, but Dean heard the warning behind it.

He had no interest in putting himself in another stupid situation this week.

“Nah,” he answered. “Maybe later.”

Gordon shrugged, like it was no skin off his nose. “Later, it is.”

Unfortunately, he was probably right. Dean had to subsidize his income somehow, and it was either this or keep working for Crowley—if Crowley even had use for him anymore now that Dean’s debt was paid. He couldn’t decide which way of making cash was the dumber option. It was a rock and a hard place.

But it was a choice he’d make later. For now, he was just happy to be in the clear.

He left the bar, walking as quickly as he could without making it obvious how badly he wanted to get out of there before Gordon changed his mind. But the people at the table didn’t watch him go. They were already back to their game, betting with his money.

But, hell, at least he got out of there with his tongue still in his mouth.

///

A few minutes after ten on Sunday, Castiel stood in the stairwell outside the Winchesters' apartment. His right hand was curled into a fist at his side, and his left was clutching the plastic handles of a grocery bag. He lifted his fist to knock, stomach flopping at the prospect of the chatter and music he could already hear on the other side of the door.

He told himself he would be fine. Dean and Sam would be there, and he was already comfortable around them. Their friends would most likely be just as welcoming. He knocked before he could tell himself otherwise.

Sam opened the door with a content smile on his face, and Castiel instantly felt himself relax. "Hey, Cas. You made it. Come on in. Let me introduce you to everybody."

When Castiel was shepherded into the doorway, he saw two women inside the apartment. One, with dark hair, was looking at him from over the top of the couch; the other was blonde, and was standing on the other side of the chef's window in the kitchen, a blender and dozens of ingredients in front of her. Dean wasn't there.

"Cas, this is my girlfriend, Eileen," Sam introduced as the dark haired girl stood up and walked around the couch to greet them.

"Hello."

"Hi there," Eileen said, and it was then that he realized she was deaf.

Sam turned fully towards her and said, "This is Castiel." He began slowly spelling out the letters of Castiel's name in sign language, but stumbled slightly. Embarrassed, he ran his hand through his hair and chuckled. "I'm still learning."

Castiel felt his mouth pull at that. He thought Sam learning sign language for Eileen was a beautiful sentiment.

"You'll get 'em next time," Eileen teased him before looking back to Castiel. "It's nice to meet you, Castiel."

Castiel didn't know any sign language, and he briefly shot Sam an unsure glance. However, Eileen seemed to understand what he was saying, so he told her, "Likewise."

"And that's Jo," Sam said, gesturing at the girl in the kitchen. She was young, probably still in high school. Still, she seemed an expert at blending frozen margaritas.

"Hey!" Jo called over while pouring a generous amount of tequila into the blender.

Castiel remembered the grocery bag in his hand, and held it up. "I brought a pie." He hoped Dean liked blueberry. It had been a choice between that and cherry, and deliberation over the decision had been the reason Castiel was a few minutes late.

Sam snorted and relieved Castiel of the bag, peering into it. He pulled an impressed frown and nodded, and Castiel hoped that meant he'd been correct in his decision. "That'll make Dean happy," Sam said, and a fluttering flurry of victory tickled Castiel's ribs.

"You want something to drink?" Sam asked as he went to the kitchen to put the pie in the fridge. Castiel trailed after him. "Careful though. Jo's a little heavy handed on the liquor."

"Shut up, you love it," Jo said before turning on the blender. The loud, mechanical whirl of it overtook the room for a few seconds.

Castiel raised his voice to say, "I would like to try one." He'd never drank so early in the day but, judging by the empty beer bottles already on the coffee table, this was a good place to try it.

Briefly, he realized his family would be in church by now, and they were probably wondering where he was. Michael would be angry when Castiel didn't show up, but Castiel did his best to forget the numbness that fact made settle into his skin. He wanted to enjoy himself.

After the margaritas had been distributed, the front door slammed open quite suddenly and caught everyone's attention. Dean and a redheaded woman came through, their arms laden with reusable grocery bags. "Who's ready for some tacos?" Dean called loudly, as though they were in a giant concert hall and he was the performer on stage.

"Wooh!" Sam, Eileen, and Jo sounded back, causing Dean to give a summer bright smile that caused wrinkles to form around his eyes. Castiel thought, out of all of Dean's expressions, he liked that one best.

However, it faltered somewhat when his eyes found Castiel. "Hey. You made it," Dean said, echoing Sam's words from earlier but making them sound as if they had a completely different meaning.

"I did. Hello, Dean."

Dean cleared his throat and turned to the redhead beside him. "Well, this is Charlie. Charlie, that's—."

"Cas, right?" Charlie interrupted, her eyes going wide and excitable. Castiel couldn't remember the last time anyone appeared so happy to meet him. She dropped her bags on the floor and rushed up to him, engulfing him in an embrace. "I feel like we're already best friends! I've heard so much about you!"

Castiel had been right. Sam and Dean's friends were just as warm and welcoming as they were.

In fact, he wasn't used to such a thing. He didn't really know what to do with the hug except wait it out. After what felt like a full five minutes, but what was most likely much shorter, Charlie released him.

"Well, I mean, I don't know about _so much_ ," Dean hedged. His skin looked pinker than it had before.

"Dude, are you kidding?" Charlie shot back. She leaned into Castiel, and in a mock-whisper told him, "He won't shut up about you."

"Charlie!" Dean barked.

Her expression flashed guiltily, and she muttered something about not knowing it was a secret. Castiel felt the back of his neck heat up. He didn't know Dean spoke of him when he wasn't around. He wondered what kinds of things Dean said.

There was a beat where everything was silent, just the sound of the music coming from the record player in the corner of them room. Then, cheerfully, Dean said, "Okay, taco time!"

As Dean picked up the bags, the cotton of his shirt pulled against his chest and shoulders, and Castiel suddenly became panicked. He got the overwhelming, urgent need to reach out and run his hand over it. He fisted his hands at his sides in order to keep them in check. It was likely Dean would push him away and kick him out of the apartment if Castiel tried to touch him; but, in this flash flood of a fantasy, Dean pulled him closer and kissed him. Castiel almost felt the pressure on his lips, and he had to bite down on them to quell it.

He rattled his head, aware of the strange stirring inside his abdomen. He didn't know where these thoughts were coming from. They were entirely inappropriate.

After they brought the bags to the kitchen and heaved them onto the counter, Dean opened the fridge to begin storing ingredients until he needed them when he suddenly froze. "Who the hell brought this?" he asked. When he stood back up, he had the pie in his hands, and was staring down at it like he didn't know what it was. Castiel couldn't determine if he was angry or not. Perhaps bringing it had been a bad idea.

He thought it would be polite.

"Cas did," Sam offered.

"You—you mentioned you enjoyed them."

Dean's expression softened as he looked up, eyes sweeping to Castiel's. Almost immediately, he looked away again, his bottom lip twisting between his teeth. He was _definitely_ pinker than before. "Thanks, Cas. That was, uh—."

"I'm not certain it's a dessert that will pair well with Mexican food," Castiel told him earnestly.

Seeming to recover, Dean put the pie away and exclaimed, "Fuck yeah, it will! Pie goes with everything!"

Castiel took his first sip of his drink to keep himself from grinning. Sam certainly hadn't been lying about the amount of liquor in it.

An hour later, the group was sprawled out around the coffee table, munching on chips and the last scrapings of fresh guacamole Dean had made earlier. Dean was still in the kitchen frying up tortillas. The oily smell of them filled up the room, and Castiel was sure it would stick to his clothes and hair for days after. He found he didn't mind too much.

His eyes kept wandering towards the kitchen, where he occasionally got glimpses of Dean milling around as he worked. Seated on the floor in front of the television set, he leaned back on his palms, trying to play it off as if he were adjusting his position for comfort instead of the desire to keep Dean in his peripherals.

The others actively asked him questions to include him in their conversation, which was something he found he appreciated. They seemed interested in his life, and then fascinated when the conversation led him to admitting he’d had his own apartment since freshman year of college.

“So, you’ve never lived in a dorm?”

“No.”

“Never?”

“Never.”

“So, you never had to shower with flip-flops on?”

Castiel hadn’t even known that was a reality for some people.

And he couldn’t understand why they found it so bizarre, especially because Sam didn’t live in a dormitory, either. But he supposed there was a difference between having one’s own living space and living at home with one’s family.

Now, Charlie was telling them about a new video game she'd been trying to beat, and the others joined in with laughter and shouts as they excitedly spoke over one another at points. Castiel realized he'd tuned out. It wasn't as though he weren't interested; he was just distracted.

Sam saying, "We're out of guac," brought him back to reality. It looked like Sam was about to get up to retrieve more, but Castiel quickly scooped the bowl up from the table. He hadn't realized the urgency of his own movements until Sam snapped back in surprise.

"I'll," Castiel said lamely, not knowing how to make up for his sudden action, "get more." He picked himself up from the floor and made for the kitchen before embarrassment got the better of him. The others seemed to let it go easily enough, as they were already back to chatting by the time he left the room.

Dean's back was to the entrance, and he was holding up a golden-brown folded tortilla shell over the pan of bubbling, hissing oil to shake off the excess. When it was drained, he set it with the others on the paper towels laid out on the counter. He put an uncooked shell into the oil, causing it to bubble and spit. He was humming something that sounded familiar as he worked.

"What song is that?" Castiel asked, and Dean jumped.

When he settled, he said, "Dammit, Cas. Warn a guy. I got hot oil here. Not trying to reenact _Raiders_ here."

Castiel didn't understand that reference, but he supposed it didn't matter. He thinned his lips, hands tightening around the bowl between them. "Apologies." He walked further into the kitchen, which was small enough that he was at Dean’s side in two strides. "We ran out of guacamole."

His eyes fell to Dean's mouth, then throat, and he imagined pressing his lips to both those places. He wondered how Dean's breath might hitch if he did.

Dean flipped the tortilla and picked up one edge with the tongs, folding it over the other and holding it in place as the shell hardened. "Fridge," he said. And then, "It's _Hey, Jude_."

Castiel blinked at him, wondering if he'd missed part of the conversation they were currently having. "What?"

"The song. The one I was humming. It was _Hey, Jude_. By the Beatles?"

"Oh." Of course. Castiel knew that song. He went to the refrigerator and pulled out the Tupperware filled with the extra guacamole.

"My mom used to sing it to me when I was going to sleep," Dean went on. It caused Castiel to pause. "It was playing in the grocery store. Got stuck in my head." As he spoke, he flipped the shell to let the other side cook and twirled the tongs around in his hand to make light of what he was saying.

"That sounds like a very nice memory," Castiel told him. He wondered what his own mother might have sung to him while he slept.

"Yeah.” Dean went still, eyes staring into the middle distance, gaze turning inward. “You know, it’s funny. Whenever I hear it, I dunno—it kinda feels like she’s talking to me. Telling me what to do."

“Maybe she is,” Castiel answered.

Dean stared down at the oil bubbling around the shell for a long time, and then shook his head as if waking up. He picked the tortilla out of the pan, and it looked much darker than the others. "This one's no good. You guys could use it for the guac," he said, and put it down on the paper towels.

There were already enough shells to make more tacos than all six of them could possibly eat. But Dean continued to work diligently.

“This is nice of you,” Castiel felt the need to say, “cooking for your friends like this.”

“Yeah, well.” Dean tossed a tight smile his way. “I’m celebrating.”

Castiel didn’t understand. Was it someone’s birthday? Was it _Dean’s_ birthday? He didn’t see any gifts around. “Celebrating what?”

“Oh, just stuff. You know.”

Castiel didn’t know, but it didn’t seem like Dean was going to explain further.

He didn't know if he should remain in the kitchen, or if Dean wanted him to return to the living room. He opened his mouth to say he would bring the guacamole to the others, but Dean said, "Hey, you wanna help with the meat?"

Castiel figured, if they wanted the guacamole, they could come get it. He nodded.

"Cool." Dean squeezed past him to get to the fridge, his palm wrapping around Castiel's shoulder as he did. Castiel tensed slightly at the touch, but Dean didn't pull away. He kept it there as he went into the fridge and pulled out a pack of ground beef.

His hand was hot from the temperature of the kitchen, and gentler than Castiel had expected, despite the rough calluses. He remembered thinking the same thing the night Dean had patched him up at Harvelle's. His heart had quickened then, too.

When Dean let his touch fall away, it dragged down Castiel's arm. He said, "Go into the cabinet and get another pan, would ya?"

Dean did most of the work while cooking, and Castiel wasn't certain why he was needed. His only function seemed to be passing spices and cheese to Dean when he asked for them. But Castiel didn't mind, especially because the kitchen was tight enough that, whenever Dean had to get around him, he was liberal with his hands. They grazed Castiel's hips, held his arms, rested on the small of his back. Their shoulders knocked together occasionally. Every time, it made his skin hum, and he thought he'd like to touch back.

Every time he tried, he lost his nerve.

After some time, Charlie came into the kitchen, asking after the guacamole. Castiel realized he'd forgotten about it completely.

When it was almost time to eat, Jo mixed up another batch of margaritas, and they crowded around the coffee table. The plates were familiar, and Castiel realized they were stolen from KU's dining hall. He decided not to say anything and everyone piled food onto their plate. The table was completely filled with overlapping dishes and bowls of salsa, cheese, and sour cream. Much of it ended up on the table and floor, but no one seemed to mind the mess.

Dean was seated next to Castiel on the carpet, both of them facing Sam and Eileen on the couch, as they ate. Their sides were pressed up against each other, thighs touching. At times, Dean's fingers would brush against the dip of Castiel's spine, and he tried not to shiver.

He told himself the proximity was simply due to the lack of room around the table.

///

After everyone's third helping of tacos and they, much to Dean's chagrin, polished off the pie Cas brought, they settled in to flip through the channels for something to watch. Not that they had many channels. The bunny ears hooked up to the TV set only picked up broadcast and local channels, but the _Honeymooners_ was playing on one of them and they all voted it was the best thing on at the moment.

Dean couldn't sit still for very long, though. His hands kept gravitating towards Cas, knuckles brushing against his arms and fingers touching Cas’ when Dean let his hands fall from his lap to his side. It took all his willpower not to casually sling his arm around Cas' shoulders along the top of the couch. Each time Cas shifted, his knee bumped against Dean's thigh, causing a quiet rush that made the tips of his ears heat up.

If they were alone, maybe Dean wouldn't have been so embarrassed. They were friends—or at least, Dean considered them friends at this point. Dean was never this hyper-aware of accidental contact with any of his other friends. Granted, they never sat this closely in his personal space, so it never really came up.

Needing some breathing room, Dean eventually picked himself up from the couch and went to the kitchen to get started on the clean up. He felt Cas' gaze follow him, but he consciously didn't turn around to meet it.

He put his hands to more useful work by putting the leftover food away and washing the dishes, careful to keep the clattering to a minimum so it wouldn't disturb the others' viewing party. But, while it was all well and good that his hands were preoccupied, the work was mindless, and he let his thoughts wander without meaning to.

First, his thoughts turned to the cash buried in his drawer in his bedroom. There were still a couple hundred bucks left over from what he’d forked over to Gordon. Giving up that much money had been tough, and he’d had half a mind to keep it, but that would only cause him more problems. Besides, sticking it to Gordon was worth five-large. The look on his face had been priceless.

And then, somehow, his mind spun back around to Cas. It'd been doing that lately—always in moments like these, when the monotony of repetition and routine found Dean uninhibited. In the shower when he was washing his hair, when he tossed and turned in bed at night, driving between work and home. He thought of Cas. It was his inherent, base-level cognizance, his resting pulse. All without him realizing it.

Cas had brought him pie. Cas had remembered something Dean had mentioned in passing. Maybe it didn't mean anything. Maybe Cas was just a thoughtful guy, and all that intense staring had to mean he was a close listener. But—it was the cheesiest thing—that simple gesture made Dean feel like he was wanted, like what he said and did mattered to somebody.

Cas had brought him blueberry pie.

After some time, Charlie drifted into the kitchen and stood beside him. She picked up a dishtowel and started drying the pile of plates, pans, and utensils he was piling next to the sink.

It occurred to him, unbidden, that he wished it had been Cas instead.

"The tacos were extra delish today," Charlie told him after a minute. It didn't sound like what she actually wanted to say, but Dean would take the compliment.

He snorted. "You sure you just didn't have too many of Jo's margaritas?"

"You sure you didn't put crack in the food?" she shot back.

They fell into silence again, the sound of the water rushing out of the faucet and the occasional squeak of the cloth against a dish between them. Dean's fingertips were starting to prune, and there were suds on his sleeves.

"So," Charlie started up again in her tone that suggested she was trying way too hard to be nonchalant. "I like Cas."

Dean nodded. "Yeah, he's a cool guy," he said absently, and belatedly realized _cool_ probably wasn't the best word to describe Cas.

"Everyone else seems to like him, too. Sam, too."

He didn't want to know what she was getting at, but he had a creeping suspicion he already did. "Okay."

She turned her attention back to the dishes, and lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "You seem to like him a lot, too."

That. That's what she'd wanted to say.

He sighed, wanting to rub his eyes to stifle the headache he knew this conversation would bring on, but his hands were still soapy. "Charlie."

"What? I didn't say anything!" Her voice was way too defensive to be innocent.

"Good. Don't."

A breath burst out of her, and she literally dropped all pretenses of drying the dishes. She turned fully to him, one hand resting on the counter and the other on her hip. "You like him! Like, _like_ him, like him. Admit it."

He shot her a frustrated glare in warning. "I don't like Cas." And that was the truth.

"Bull," she maintained. "And he totally likes you, too. He goes all heart-eyes whenever he looks at you!"

"How can you even tell that? Dude's got two expressions: constipated and confused."

"A girl just knows, Dean."

Now that was just nutty. Cas—Catholic school, Sunday mass, god-with-a-capital-G-fearing Cas. Cas—rich kid from the country club community near Clinton Lake. Cas—straight A business major on track to inherit his family's company. He probably even had a trust fund. There was no way he liked dudes, and there was especially no way he liked Dean.

Taking only a moment to submit to the spike of self-loathing in his chest, Dean thought, _Why would he?_

And why would Dean like Cas? Sure, he was a good guy, but they were totally different. It'd never work between them, for more reasons than one.

"He's a Novak," Dean told her, like that summed it all up.

"So?"

"So?" He laughed. "Charlie. You went on a hunger strike in high school ‘cause they bought a company that donates to the AFA. We've been to protests outside their office building."

She faltered a little, eyes moving in thought. "Okay," she said slowly. "But maybe he's in the closet. Maybe he doesn't want his family to know. It took you forever to admit you're bi, right?"

He rolled his eyes. She was reaching.

All this conversation was doing was irritating him. "Just drop it, alright?" he warned. Tensely, he went back to the dishes, hoping it would signal an end to the conversation.

But Charlie always had to get the last word. "Fine," she said, starting to dry again, "but you'll thank me at your wedding."

Like that would ever happen. John would never allow it, even if he did know that his son liked guys. And the Novaks? It was a pipe dream.

And it wasn't even a pipe dream! It was nothing.

"Dean?"

Dean nearly jumped out of his skin. He whipped around to find Cas standing in the entrance to the kitchen. Heart pounding, he wondered how long he'd been standing there, and how much he'd heard. Charlie's eyes were wide with panic, too, showing she was worried about the same thing.

But apparently, Cas had just arrived, because his expression was pleasant, hints of a smile in his eyes. Dean realized his coat was already on.

"I have to go. I wanted to say thank you before I left."

"Oh," Dean said, a little disappointed that they couldn't hang out more. "Yeah, no problem. See ya later, man." It was no big deal. It wasn't like Cas was going to drop off the face of the earth. He’d see him again.

Right?

Not that he needed to.

Dean turned back to his task.

"It was nice meeting you! You should come over more often," Charlie told Cas, and Dean wanted to step on her foot, but that would make it obvious.

"It was nice to meet you, too," Cas said. "I—I would like that. If that’s what you want, Dean.”

Dean didn’t look around. He tried not to shout, _hell yes that’s what I want_.

“Huh? Oh, yeah. Open invitation.”

There was a brief pause before Cas said, "Well. Goodbye."

Dean felt the moment he stopped hovering in the doorway. He focused on getting out a stubborn food particle on the prong of a fork. He put all of his attention into it, and made like he couldn't hear the front door close behind Cas.

///

The next afternoon, Castiel was leaving his lecture hall after his accounting midterm. His eyes were still slightly crossed from frowning down at the test, and his mind was whirling dizzily from thinking too much. He wanted to sleep.

He stopped in his tracks when he got to the parking lot and found Uriel there. His Audi was parked in the space next to Castiel’s truck, and he was leaning against the hood as if he’d been waiting there for a long while.

“Uriel? What are you doing here?” Castiel asked when he got closer, his stomach already souring. His brother wouldn’t have shown up unannounced for any good reason. This felt a little like an ambush.

Uriel stood up straighter, his eyes scanning Castiel up and down quickly as if checking for something. “Michael sent me,” he said, and Castiel’s blood ran cold. “He wants to speak with you at once.”

Castiel fisted his hand around the strap of his backpack and squinted off across the parking lot. “About what?” It was a stupid question, an attempt at playing dumb. He already knew exactly what Michael wanted.

He heard Uriel let out a heavy breath. “Where were you yesterday, Castiel?” There was no heat in his voice. There was, however, a certain kind of shallow pity. It was enough to make Castiel wonder just how angry Michael was with him, and what exactly he was about to walk into.

“I was with,” he began, and the chill in his bones quickly melted, “friends.”

Judging by the look on Uriel’s face, it wasn’t a good enough excuse; but Castiel didn’t regret it.

“You’ll have to tell that to Michael.” He walked around his car to the driver’s side, not having to take his key out of his pocket in order for it to unlock. He stood in the open door and continued, “Follow after me.”

Castiel thinned his lips and nodded. He supposed he could drive in the opposite direction, but what would be the point of that? He didn’t have anywhere to run to. Even if he did, he couldn’t avoid his brother forever. Michael was inevitable.

He assumed God wouldn’t send him to eternal damnation for skipping one Sunday mass, but he still had to incur Michael’s wrath.

Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad. Perhaps, like last time, he’d merely get a slap on the wrist. Surely, Michael was too busy to concern himself with Castiel’s life in too much depth.

He got in his truck and drove after Uriel towards downtown. He didn’t have to ask where they were going. Michael would still be at the office for another few hours, or perhaps all night.

When they got to the parking lot in back of Evangelist, Castiel trailed Uriel inside. Uriel got off the elevator at the second to the top floor, wishing Castiel good luck before the silver doors slid shut. The top floor was still buzzing with activity when he reached it, as working late was the norm for their employees. Some of them waved and called friendly greetings to Castiel as he walked by, and he called back to them by name.

“Hi, Castiel,” Hannah said when he approached her desk. She took a break from whatever email she was typing to cross her arms on the white desktop in front of her and lean into them. She gave him a closed-mouth smile. “He’s just wrapping up another meeting. You can sit down while you wait.”

She buzzed into Michael’s office to alert him of Castiel’s arrival.

Castiel thanked her and perched himself on the edge of one of the leather chairs outside Michael’s office. He declined Hannah’s offer for a coffee or tea, even though he probably needed the caffeine for his studying later.

“I didn’t see you yesterday,” Hannah said as her fingers clacked on her keyboard. “Were you sick?”

“No. I was with friends.” Each time he said the word, it elicited a tickling sensation in his chest before settling back in, warm and content. “We ate tacos.”

Hannah glanced up and offered another smile. “Sounds like fun.”

Castiel gave a half-smile to his shoes. It _had_ been fun.

Eventually, the office door swung open, and Castiel looked up to find Sergeant Billie walking out. She stopped when she clocked him, and crossed her arms over her chest as though he’d offended her simply by existing. “Castiel,” she said, making it sound like a warning. He hadn’t expected her to remember his name. “Sup?”

He nodded curtly, avoiding eye contact. “Hello.”

She didn’t make conversation after that, which he was glad for. Quickly, she walked back down the hall. Castiel tried not to watch her go, but his thoughts followed after her as far as the elevator bank. He wondered why she’d been meeting with Michael.

The office door was closed again, and, although he knew Michael was alone, he knew better than to go in before his brother told Hannah he was ready. It took a few minutes, but then there was a buzz from the intercom on Hannah’s desk phone, and Michael’s voice said, “Send him in.”

Castiel wondered if it was too late to find a hiding spot.

He stood up as tall as he could, squared his shoulders, and walked into the office. Michael was seated at his desk, his bright eyes on his computer screen as he worked. He barely cast Castiel a glance as he said, “Castiel, have a seat.”

But Castiel preferred to stand. The invitation felt too much like a trap. He settled behind the chairs in front of Michael’s desk and folded his hands behind his back.

Presently, Michael stood up, too, and buttoned his suit jacket as he did.

“You wanted to see me?” Castiel asked him.

“Yes.” Michael turned around to face the large window behind his desk. He walked up to it, his reflection transparent in the glass. “I wanted to discuss your absence yesterday at mass and our weekly meeting.”

Castiel’s spine was starting to protest, but he kept it rigid, even though Michael’s back was to him. “I apologize for not telling you I wasn’t coming. Something . . . important came up.”

“Care to tell me what’s more important than attending church with your family? Or learning what it takes to run this company?” Michael’s voice was emotionless, which was worse in some ways. It touched like ice to Castiel’s skin. He’d almost prefer the heat of fury.

“I was with friends,” Castiel told him honestly, and tried to frame it in a way Michael would understand. “You’re always telling me to be more sociable. I assumed you’d approve.”

Michael reached up to adjust the knot of his tie, pulling it tighter, but didn’t turn around. “I do approve, but not during family time. And certainly not during God’s time.”

Castiel caught himself before he could let out an exasperated breath. “I know. It’s just—the Winchesters’ invitation was for Sunday and I didn’t think it would be appropriate to ask for a different—.”

Michael looked over his shoulder. “Winchester?” he asked.

Castiel blinked, taken off his guard. “Yes?” He hadn’t meant it to be a question. Off Michael’s silence, he repeated, “I didn’t want Sam and Dean to have to reschedule to a different date for me alone. They had others in attendance, as well.”

As he was speaking, Michael spun slowly around on his heels and walked back to his desk. He pulled his chair out and sat down, hands pressing down on the wood. “Tell me about these new friends of yours.”

It wasn’t a request, and Castiel didn’t see how it was relevant, but he said, “Sam is a freshman at my school. He’s studying law.”

Michael hummed with interest at that. “And the other? Dean, was it? What are his qualifications?”

“He works as a mechanic and a bartender. He was the one who fixed my truck the last time it broke down.” Michael didn’t react at all to this, which told Castiel he disapproved. Castiel found himself elaborating, “He’s a dedicated worker. He provides for his family. You would like him.”

He wasn’t certain that were true. At least, not at first. Castiel hadn’t even liked Dean very much at first. He was abrasive and brash. But there was more to him than met the eye, Castiel was discovering. Something genuine. He liked Dean. Very much.

“And their parents?” Michael asked.

Castiel was apprehensive about telling him. What happened to Mary Winchester was a matter of public record, but it felt like Dean had told him about her in confidence. He had a strange, irrational feeling he would be betraying Dean’s trust somehow by speaking of her. But Michael could easily find out about her death if he wanted to. Castiel just didn’t know why he was interested.

“Their mother passed away when they were young,” he said, tender empathy that he would not show tightening his throat. He hoped Michael would feel some of it, too. They knew what it meant to lose a mother. “And their father . . . He’s a military veteran. Dean said he operates a long haul shipping route. He doesn’t seem to be around very much.”

Michael stayed quiet for a long time. He leaned back in his chair, swaying slightly back and forth, and looked Castiel up and down as he processed the new information. And Castiel suddenly understood why Michael took interest in the Winchesters. He was assessing whether or not they were suitable friends for a Novak.

He was suddenly very anxious to know the verdict.

It could have been seconds. It could have been hours. But, eventually, Michael said, “You should be associating yourself with people better fitted to help you get ahead in life.”

Castiel tensed his jaw. He wanted to ask why it mattered. He already had a gaping head start in life, and there was no reason to think that would change depending on whom he spent his time with. Besides, he didn’t want business associates. He wanted Sam and Charlie and Eileen and Jo. He wanted Dean. He wanted, and this came stealthily upon him at that very moment, people who made him feel accepted. People without ulterior motives when speaking to him.

People who treated him like, for once, he was normal. He’d felt that way around them.

“But,” was the only thing he could say to voice his tumbling thoughts, “they’re my friends.”

The word sounded heavy now, unfortunate.

“Make new friends.”

Castiel’s fists tightened at his sides, but he loosened them when he saw Michael’s gaze drop to them. He didn’t want to show his frustration towards the matter, in case Michael took it as mutiny.

“Why?”

“People like the Winchesters are distractions,” Michael told him simply. “They’ve already taken your mind off what’s important, and they will continue to do so. You don’t want people in your life who will hold you back from reaching your potential.”

That made no sense. Michael didn’t know them. He couldn’t judge whether they were good or bad for Castiel. And yet, he was speaking as if he had personal experience with the Winchesters. It was an absurd thought, but once it took root, Castiel couldn’t shake it.

“Do—do you _know_ the Winchesters?”

Michael fixed him with a hard stare, annoyed that Castiel wasn’t immediately obeying.

“I know their type,” he said. “Drop outs? Bartenders? Truck drivers? Laborers? Absent fathers?”

Castiel wanted to say their own father was absent. He refrained.

“You’re better than that, Castiel.”

Castiel metaphorically had to bite his tongue so hard, he could taste the phantom iron of blood. How could Michael think such a thing?

“I strongly suggest making friends of a higher caliber,” Michael continued. He turned back to his computer. “Perhaps joining some clubs at the university would help? I can have Hannah look into ones that might be suited to you.”

Castiel was wholly uninterested in that, or in listening to anything else Michael had to say. He took a breath to steady himself before saying, “No. I’ll . . . I’ll look into them on my own.” He supposed he would have to now that he said it, even if he didn't intend on actually joining any.

Michael gave him a short nod. “Good. It’s settled, then. I’ll see you on Sunday at ten.”

Castiel knew a dismissal when he heard one. He left immediately after that, hardly pausing to say goodbye to Hannah or anyone else. He bounced as he waited for the elevator, and didn’t stop until he was briskly walking out of the lobby and into the open air. When he got back into his truck, he sat still, knuckles white around the steering wheel.

He didn’t understand. Why would Michael care so much about whom Castiel’s friends were? He didn’t treat their other siblings like that. And he knew Michael didn’t approve of Balthazar, but he never took issue with their friendship.

In his pocket, he felt his cell phone buzz. He took it out, and his breath snagged when he saw a text from Dean.

He stared at it for a full minute, feeling the push and pull of a current within him as he decided whether or not to open it or delete it. He couldn’t resist. He slid the notification open, and even such a simple act gave him the rush of rebellion.

_Got some leftover tacos here that aren’t gonna eat themselves. Movie and chow?_

Castiel’s eyes flickered back to the building, all the way up to the top floor. His skin tingled as if he was being watched, as if Michael was omniscient and knew exactly what Castiel was doing.

But he wasn’t. He didn’t. And he had no business telling Castiel whom his friends could and could not be.

He typed, _I’ll be right over_ , and held his breath as he sent it.

It was thrilling, in a way, and he felt a grin crack his cheeks. He’d never defied his family before, but this—watching a movie and eating leftover Mexican food with Dean on his living room sofa—felt worth the risk.

He put the truck into drive and took to the street. With the windows rolled down, the cold breeze swept through his hair, and, if he closed his eyes, he could almost be flying.

But no. The wind was too scattered, whipping about the cab in every direction and filling his eardrums with a fluttering pressure. It was too chaotic to be flight.

He wasn’t quite certain what emotion he was feeling, as he’d never experienced it before. But, as he got nearer to Dean Winchester, the closest thing he could liken it to was falling.

///

Dean couldn’t believe he’d actually sent that text message without someone holding a gun to his head.

He must have drafted twenty-five different versions of it, and he still wasn’t completely sold on what he ended up sending. He’d stared at his phone, heart stopping when he saw it was delivered, and then pounding when he got the read receipt and saw the typing bubble nudge his message upward on the screen.

He’d been sure Cas would say no. But he didn’t.

And Dean didn’t know why he was getting so worked up about it. Cas was his friend. He watched movies with his friends all the time. He’d even watched one or two with Cas already. But this was different. This was the first time they’d be alone together, Dean realized, and he suddenly wished he could un-send the text.

Cas arrived about twenty minutes after he’d responded, and Dean felt like he might throw up when he answered the door to that pleasant yet neutral expression.

“Hey,” he somehow managed to say. He was being an idiot. Charlie had just gotten into his head, that was all. He’d just have to forget about what she’d said and everything would go back to normal.

“Hey,” Cas responded, and Dean thought that was the first time he’d heard such a casual greeting out of Cas’ mouth.

It was funny. When they first met, Dean was sure that Cas was stuck up and up tight. But he saw through that straight posture and fancy tie now. Because Cas slouched when he thought no one was looking. His tie was always loose around his neck, because he kept tugging at it like it was uncomfortable, and the top button of his shirt was always undone, like it might suffocate him if it weren’t. His hair was always ruffled and there were wrinkles in his trench coat.

Dean couldn’t _not_ see those things anymore. Because that right there was the real Cas: the details, not the whole picture.

As Cas walked in and took off his coat, Dean heard himself rambling nervously, “Thanks for coming over. I made like, a zillion tacos yesterday and they’ll probably go to waste. And I figured, you know, we better get first dibs before Sammy gets to them. Kid can eat like, seventeen in one sitting.”

He was full of crap, though, because he’d already taken a few tacos out of the main container in the fridge and set them in another one for Sam’s dinner later.

“Is Sam not here?” Cas asked, his eyes lighting around the room as though he’d been expecting Sam to materialize out of thin air.

Dean shuffled a little in his shoes. “No. Uh, he’s at the library. Studying for midterms.” He probably should have been upfront about that. What if Cas didn’t want to hang out with just him? “That okay?”

Cas nodded, and he looked like he meant it, which was a relief.

“Cool. Okay, great! Have a seat. Food’s just heating up in the oven. Should be done by now.”

 _God, shut_ up _, Winchester!_

He paced backward, smacking his lips and knocking his fists together before throwing one thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the kitchen. “I’ll just go get them.” His heel connected with something, and he stumbled before realizing it was one of Sam’s shoes. He cursed under his breath, suddenly feeling like a dumbass. Dean kicked the shoe out of the way a little more violently than he'd intended.

When he looked back up, Cas was staring at him with his forehead scrunched into a confused frown. “Are you alright, Dean?”

“Yeah, peachy!” It came out way too fast, and way too cheery. He retreated into the kitchen before he could make an even bigger fool of himself, and shook his head disparagingly as soon as he was alone.

A few minutes later, he came back out with a tray of the reheated tacos, two beers, some condiments, and a little bit more confidence. Cas was already sitting on the couch, hands on his knees as he stared ahead at the blank TV set. He glanced up at Dean when he approached.

“What movie would you like to watch?”

Dean’s laptop was already on the coffee table. He set the food down and reached for it, tucking it under his arm. “I downloaded one. You said you dig Abe Lincoln, right?”

For a second, Cas looked surprised that Dean had remembered that, but he recovered quickly. “Yes. I enjoy his biography,” he said. There was a smile in his voice, but not on his lips.

“Okay. Well, this is kinda like that.” Dean let out a little chuckle as he continued, “Except there are vampires.”

Cas paused. And then, tonelessly, “Vampires?”

“Yeah!” Dean felt like an idiot again, but he tried to sell it. He took his laptop closer to the TV and started setting it up with the HDMI cable. “It’s, you know, historical fiction or whatever. You like history. I like monster flicks. I’ve never seen this one, but I figured it was a good compromise.”

He chanced a look over at Cas, just to judge whether or not he was regretting coming over, but then his eyes stayed on him, fingers hovering over the keyboard. He was _so close_ to getting an actual, honest to god smile out of Cas.

“Okay, Dean,” he agreed.

Dean relaxed his shoulders, and turned his attention back to setting up the movie. Once it started to play, he rushed back to the couch and plopped down next to Cas, careful to leave enough room between them on the cushions. He reached for the remote and turned up the volume, and then leaned forward to get at the food.

Cas did the same—and so much for the space between them, because their knees brushed together. Dean pointedly didn’t pay attention to it. He focused on trying to hear the movie over the crunch of the taco shells as he bit into them.

Less than a quarter of the way into the movie, the food was gone, leaving behind ravaged crumbs, bits of ground beef, and smears of sour cream on the tray. Cas was reclining back on the cushion, feet still on the floor and hands clasped together on his lap like he didn’t trust himself to move them. Dean, on the other hand, had made himself comfortable by slinging his arm over the back of the couch, and Cas didn’t seem to mind that it was right behind his shoulder.

They’d gravitated closer together, but Dean blamed that on the shitty couch cushions, so that their sides were practically touching. At one point, Cas glanced over at Dean, catching Dean’s attention. He gave a small, awkward smile, and Cas returned it with his eyes before turning away again. Cas shimmied his shoulders a little against the back of the couch to get more comfortable, and the movement pressed his body in even closer, but he didn’t seem to notice.

The movie was fun and action-packed, but kind of lame. Dean didn’t know if he would have watched it on his own, or even sought it out if it hadn’t been for Cas. It was a few years old already, and he’d spent about a half an hour on Google searching for something they both might like before he’d stumbled across it.

Usually, when he watched a movie with Sam or Charlie, he picked a classic, or something new that caught his interest. He never really cared much if they wanted to watch it, and their complaints never lasted very long. But he hadn’t wanted Cas to complain. This was their first solo movie viewing. He didn’t want to scare Cas off. He wanted him to enjoy himself and— _holy shit_ , Charlie was right.

Dean turned his head slowly, trying to stomp down his panic, to look at Cas’ profile. To find his arm still precariously close to being around Cas’ shoulders. To see their sides still touching, even though there was no godly reason for it. He didn’t move away.

Yeah. Dean was crushing hard.


	5. Chapter 5

The semester pushed closer towards winter break, with the teasing allure of Thanksgiving vacation. Castiel spent the holiday as he normally did, back at his family home with his siblings gathered around the long polished snakewood table in the dining room as a team of chefs and servers catered the dinner, where conversation stuck mostly to company affairs. As the pumpkin pie was served, he fleetingly wondered how the Winchesters were spending their day.

He didn't have to wait long to ask them, as he was invited over the following day for Dean's so-called famous leftover turkey sandwiches.

As the weeks progressed, the Winchesters had become something of a staple in Castiel's life. He and Sam studied in the library together at least twice a week. He went over every Tuesday night to watch a movie. He was invited to parties and social gatherings, along with Charlie and Eileen, and sometimes even Jo. Balthazar had even become friendly with them, even if he didn't seem to particularly like Dean—a mutual sentiment fueled by their clashing personalities.

And, it seemed, he saw Dean most days—if not every day. They ate meals together. They aimlessly drove around together in the Impala. Castiel would sometimes forgo the library in favor of doing his homework at Bobby Singer's garage as Dean worked. Dean was with him when Castiel spent time with Claire and Jack, much to the children's joy, as they seemed to like Dean better than Castiel these days. Often, Dean would swing by Castiel's apartment unannounced to listen to music, because, "no way I'm hanging out with you if you don't know this album, Cas."

In general, Castiel's tight and meticulous routine was disrupted beyond repair. It was all Dean Winchester's fault.

Even when they weren't together, Dean texted him jokes and humorous pictures from the Internet that he called memes. He sent him news articles that he thought Castiel might enjoy. More than once, Castiel was woken up in the middle of the night by Dean texting him unintelligible sentences and typos that worried him at first before he learned that Dean was only drunk texting him. He usually had no idea how to answer Dean's texts, but he appreciated receiving them.

In such a short time, Dean had become a constant presence in his life. The thought of him was always in the back of Castiel's mind. Little things people did or said reminded Castiel of him. With every event in his life, small or big, dull or unexpected, he found he wanted to share them with Dean.

And Castiel was at peace with that. Something nestled itself inside his chest whenever he was with Dean, whenever he spoke to him, even when they were miles apart. Dean Winchester was the one he could run to for an escape; he was the safe place where Castiel could rest when the mountains looming over him were too high and he was too weak to climb them. The place he wanted to stay.

Three weeks before the end of the semester, Castiel sat at his usual table in the library, Sam across from him with his long legs crossed at the ankles on the chair beside him and his laptop hanging off the edge of the table as he slumped lazily. Castiel's nose was in his textbook, the text before him blurring together as he squinted down at it. His cell phone at his elbow danced under a vibration, and he was happy for the distraction. He snatched it up instantly, a dizzying warmth spreading through his chest when he saw a text notification from Dean.

_Can you two nerds quit studying on a Friday night?_

It was quickly followed by: _I'm bored as fuck over here_

And then: _Come to Harvelle's tonight. I'm working_

Fighting back the grin threatening to form, Castiel typed back: _How can I? You have an ID scanner now, remember?_

_Sneak in through the back_

_You could lose your job._

_So don't drink anything. problem solved_

Castiel shook his head at his phone, realizing the grin he was forcing down had slipped out when he wasn't paying attention. He quickly trained his features and glanced around stealthily to make sure no one was staring at him like he was an idiot. Thankfully, no one seemed to notice him at all.

Before he could respond to Dean, Sam let out a frustrated breath and pushed his laptop away from him. He ran his fingers through his hair, sitting up. "I think I need another coffee. You want? It's my turn to buy, right?"

Castiel picked up the coffee cup next to his book and shook it gently. It was still half-full. "I'm fine," he said. And then, "What are you working on?" Finals weren't for another few weeks, but he didn't know what else would irritate Sam so much. He didn't think he'd ever seem him so harried.

Sam pursed his lips and let out another grunt. "My resume," he said, like the very idea of such a thing was enough to send the bravest man retreating.

Castiel lifted his brows in question.

"Yeah," Sam went on, withering. "I'm trying to get an internship next semester. My career adviser told me to talk myself up on it, but—," he gave a self-deprecating breath of laughter, "kinda hard to do that when the only experience I have is a maintenance guy at a crappy motel and a summer camp counselor."

Castiel's eyes dropped down to the table. He wanted to help, but he hadn't much experience writing resumes. His job at the gas station hadn't required one, and he hadn’t held another job since. Besides, any resume he had to turn in to Evangelist after his graduation would be nothing but a formality. He was fairly certain he could hand in a sheet of paper with the lyrics to the theme song of Jack's favorite television program about the porifera who lives inside a tropical fruit typed in comic sans and no one would bat an eye.

But perhaps there was another way he could help Sam. "Where are you applying?"

He shrugged as if it were a hopeless topic not worthy of discussing. "Few law firms downtown. They're really competitive though. I was thinking about calling up some more of the local law offices, too. You know, the ones with the ads about asbestos poisoning and whatever. But a lot of them don't need any help. I told them I'd do it for free but—," he gestured his palms out and blew out his cheeks.

Castiel ran his tongue across his lips, a mannerism he realized he'd picked up from Dean, as he pondered Sam's issue. A plan formulating in his head, he leaned in. "Well," he began, and his tone must have suggested he was conspiring because Sam instantly perked up. "Many of the law firms in the area are Evangelist subsidiaries. If you give your resume to me, I can have Uriel pass it along."

Sam straightened his shoulders, his jaw moving as he thought of a way to respond. He settled on, "You serious?"

Castiel didn't know why he'd joke about such a thing. Dean had said Sam deserved more than he was allotted in life. Castiel wanted to ensure that was corrected, for both Winchesters’ sakes.

"Of course. I want to help. You, more than anyone, are deserving of such opportunities."

The corners of Sam's mouth twitched, and he looked down at the table top in a flattered kind of way. It was much better than seeing him down on himself. "Thanks, Cas. I—uh, I owe you one."

"No," Castiel told him. "You don't."

Sam nodded and tensed his jaw to hold back his smile. Castiel wished he wouldn't.

"Okay," Sam then said, placing his hands flat on the table and picking himself up. "Coffee. I'm buying."

Castiel pulled his brows together. He'd just said he didn't need any. "But, I'm not—."

"Cas. It's on me."

Sam was already walking away, and Castiel didn't call him back. If he truly felt he needed to pay Castiel back, and this was his way of doing so, then he wouldn't find an argument.

Castiel looked back down at his phone and found another slew of texts from Dean.

 _You ignoring me now?_

_Cas_

_Cas!_

_If you don't answer me I'm gonna assume it's a yes_

Castiel didn’t care who saw him. He allowed himself to look like an idiot.

It was a _yes_. Whatever Dean wanted, Castiel’s answer would always be a _yes_.

///

That Thursday after class, Castiel had plans to pick Claire and Jack up for dinner. Dean would be joining them again, and Castiel thought it was time Jody and Donna made his acquaintance. He knew they trusted him not to neglect the children or put them in any danger, but Dean was still a stranger to them, and he wanted them to be comfortable knowing he wasn’t a bad influence.

Dean picked Castiel up at his apartment and they drove towards the orphanage together. He played at being calm, but Castiel saw the nerves hidden beneath his exterior—it was in the way his fingers knotted around the steering wheel, his tight smiles, his straight back and stern shoulders when Castiel introduced him. None of it was necessary, however, because the women took to him immediately, as Castiel knew they would; and, after a few minutes, Dean visibly relaxed. Claire and Jack brought him over to the other children, and he busied himself entertaining them as Castiel collected his charges' coats and told Donna where he was taking them. It was a diner close to the park that Dean knew of.

Soon, delighted shrieks sounded from the living room, and Castiel jerked his head towards the sounds with a start. He found Dean rolled into a ball on the floor, legs tucked against his chest and arms over his head, as the children giggled and piled on top of him. He didn’t appear to be in any distress, however. His familiar laughter was sounding from inside his protective bubble.

“Hey, knock it off,” Jody called as she walked past the living room, but her face was alight with a smile. She settled in front of Castiel and Donna, and nodded towards the living room. “I like him,” she said, folding her arms across her chest. “You picked a keeper.”

Castiel tightened his hands around the small jackets he was holding. He didn’t know what Jody had meant by that. Dean wasn’t his to keep, and Castiel hadn’t picked him for anything. Dean had somehow crept up on him and turned his entire life upside down. He wasn’t certain he had any choice in the matter, but he was certain that, if he did, he wouldn’t have changed it.

Not long after that, the four of them piled into the Impala and drove towards the diner. It was a small, rectangular tan building on the corner of the street. The parking lot was an amalgamation of cracked tar, loose stone, and dry dirt, and a two-step concrete stoop led up to the glass door. The words _Lafitte's Diner_ were in big scripted letters on a sign on the roof.

The inside was pleasant enough: a simple counter with round red stools, booths along the windows and a few sparse tables in the center of the room. The walls were lined with Mardi Gras beads and masks, as were various alligator decorations: decals, stain art, one humorous drawing of two such creatures in sunglasses and Hawaiian shirts drinking margaritas on a beach. A realistic baby alligator sat on the hostess booth, its yellow, reptilian eyes staring blankly ahead.

There were a few patrons in the diner, but otherwise it was empty. One waitress, a tall woman with long black hair and Mediterranean skin, flitted from table to table, topping up coffee cups and taking orders. She smiled when Dean caught her eye.

"Hey, Andrea," Dean greeted. "Benny in?"

"Hi, Dean. He's in the kitch—."

"I knew I sensed trouble," a loud, southern drawl sounded from the chef’s window behind the counter. A man that couldn't have been older than thirty, dressed in a white apron and hat, was looking out. Castiel wasn't surprised Benny heard Dean's voice from his place in the smoking metallic kitchen. The diner was so small, Castiel could probably cross it in a few short strides.

Dean let out a bark of laughter and pushed towards the counter. He put one knee on a stool and leaned in, his arms resting over the flat surface. "Hey, hey! You sonofabitch. Cas, c'mere, I want you to meet somebody."

Castiel looked down at Claire and Jack, both of them blinking up at him with confusion, and he could relate. He took Jack's hand in his and led him towards the counter, Claire following close beside him.

"This is Benny," Dean introduced. "Makes the best damn burger in the state."

Benny smirked from behind his sandy beard. "Now, don't give ‘em too high expectations, brother."

"Benny and Andrea moved here a couple years back," Dean explained. "I gained like, fifty pounds in a month because of him."

Benny straightened himself out and stirred something in a pot. "I kept tellin' ya to lay off on the beignets."

Castiel's eyes moved between the two of them, snagging a bit too long on the beaming brightness in Dean's eyes. Something flared in his gut, hot and twisting, at the easy way Benny was able to make Dean happy.

"Yeah, whatever," Dean said. "Hey, Cas, why don't you go grab that booth in the back? I'll be there in a sec." He didn't wait for an answer before turning back to face Benny. "So, how you been, man? It's been a minute."

Castiel thinned his lips, trying not to feel abandoned. There was a reason Dean chose to take them there, and he doubted he would spend the whole time chatting with his friend. He took the children to the booth along the window that Dean had indicated, and Andrea came around shortly with plastic menus. She also dropped off pieces of coloring paper depicting a cartoonish swampland with birds, fish, and alligators, and some crayons for the children.

Claire and Jack instantly started arguing about which colors they each wanted, and they wouldn't stop even when Castiel asked them too.

"Is Dean coming to sit with us?" Jack asked after a few minutes. Castiel had been scrutinizing the menu, and realized at that moment that nothing he'd read had processed. He was too busy trying to listen in on Dean and Benny's conversation, but all he heard was Dean's laughter and Benny's low, dulcet tones. He blinked, trying to focus. The food seemed to be a mix of American and Cajun dishes with a bit of Greek influence on occasion.

"He'll come back soon," Castiel told Jack without looking at him. "What do you want to eat?"

"I want chicken fingers!" Jack said, his exuberant smile going from ear to ear.

Claire took the distraction to swipe a green crayon from Jack's pile, and Jack shrieked loudly as he scrambled to get it back. Castiel didn't know why, as they were usually this much of a handful, but their antics were overwhelming him that day.

He heard Dean rumble with another laugh as Andrea stopped to chat with the two men.

"Claire, stop it. Both of you—share. Claire. Claire! What do you want to eat?"

"Is Dean your boyfriend?" she asked, and Castiel wanted to point out that that wasn't a dish.

He dropped the menu down to the table to look at them both sitting across from him. They seemed tiny among the vinyl cushioning. "No," he answered levelly, pushing down the anxious flutter that was suddenly in his chest.

Claire's hand was on her cheek as she looked down at her coloring. She seemed bored, like the questions she was asking were of little consequence. "Why not?"

"Because he's my friend. What do you want for dinner?"

He felt a vibration in his pocket and fished out his phone, annoyed that something else was vying for his attention. It was a text from Meg.

_Hey angel. What are you doing right now?_

"Do you _want_ him to be your boyfriend?"

Castiel huffed, trying not to lose his patience. There was no reason they should be having this conversation. Dean was his friend, nothing more. Dean would never be anything more than that. Castiel didn't even think of him as anything more than that. Except perhaps the few times he had. The few times per day. It wasn't anything abnormal, though. It was under control. Dean wasn't interested. It was under control.

He typed back a response to Meg without really even paying attention to what he was writing.

"No, Claire. Decide what you want to eat."

Claire rolled her eyes so violently, her curls bounced. "Fine," she groaned, as though he'd just asked her to climb Mt. Everest. "I want what Dean's getting."

"A cheeseburger." _With bacon and a fried egg. Extra onions. No lettuce. Mayo and ketchup for the fries._ It was a heart attack on a bun, and Castiel had no idea he'd had the order memorized until that exact instant.

"Yeah."

Still in his hand, Castiel's phone buzzed again. Meg said: _Cool, be right there._

He realized he told her he was at Lafitte's Diner. He failed to see how that could be interpreted as an invitation, but it would be rude to tell her not to come. He knew she didn't like children. Maybe she wouldn't want to join them if she knew Claire and Jack were present. It wasn't that he objected to her being there, but he already had enough on his plate with the children. And with Dean. He didn't need to add more stimuli.

Before he could text her back, Dean slid into the booth next to him, his shoulder hitting against Castiel's as he settled. "So, what are we thinking?" he asked, all smiles, as he rubbed his hands together.

Thankfully, the children settled down upon his return. It seemed Dean only had to ask them once, very nicely, to calm themselves. He cracked a joke about not wanting the other people in the diner to kick them out, and the children laughed, and he charmed them into behaving. Castiel envied him for that, but he was mostly grateful for Dean's apparent parental aptitude.

Their food came out quickly, and Benny threw in a round of milkshakes for free. There weren't any cloth napkins, and the paper ones provided were thin, but Castiel did his best to spread it on his lap like he'd been taught was proper. Dean must have noticed that because, while Claire and Jack busied themselves munching on their food, and he excused himself momentarily to grab more napkins from the counter.

That was when Meg walked in. Castiel nearly sensed the moment she walked through the door, as he happened to bring his eyes up at that exact moment. She scanned the room, brushing her long dark waves behind her ear as she did. Her eyes lit up when she spotted him, and he offered her a tight smile and a small wave as she walked over.

"Hey. You didn't tell me the twerps were here," she said, her smile not quite reaching her eyes as she leaned over to be at their level. She put on a patronizing baby voice and said, "You remember me, kiddos? Because I sure remember you! Yes, I do!"

"We're not babies," Claire spat back, unimpressed.

Meg's expression dropped, and she stood back up. "Great." Recovering, she slid into the booth next to Castiel, where Dean had been sitting. "Thanks for the invite. I needed to get the hell out of my house."

"Well, I didn't technically invite you," Castiel pointed out. "I just told you where I was."

She rolled her eyes, and snatched his milkshake from next to his plate. "Potato, potahto." She took a long sip, her maroon lipstick staining the straw.

"When did we pick up a fifth?" Dean said, suddenly appearing at the edge of the table where Meg stood moments ago. He was holding a stack of paper napkins between his hands and looking down at Meg in his seat with pushed cheer. Castiel looked up at him, suddenly guilty. He should have told Dean she was coming, but in truth, it had slipped his mind.

"Dean, this is Meg. Meg, this is Dean," Castiel introduced. Dean kept looking at her, a perplexed kind of recognition in his eyes. He seemed to be pondering something.

When Meg turned her attention to him, there was a brief pause, and she said, "Hey-ya, Dean. Aren't you a little old for Castiel to babysit you?"

Furrowing his brow, Castiel told her, "Dean is my friend."

"Right." He realized belatedly that she'd been joking. "How's it going?"

"It's, uh—." Dean rattled his head, his eyes flickering to Castiel as he licked his lips. "It's going."

Another pause. Castiel realized that Meg was leaning in very close to him. He was already against the window, and he didn't understand why she was neglecting the empty space on the edge of the booth.

"Is there something we can help you with?" she asked innocently.

Dean raised his brows, pointing with the napkins. "Actually, you're in my seat."

"Am I?" She sounded amused. "I could move?" It was framed as a question, but she didn't get up.

Dean shot her a tense smile. "No, please! I'll just pull up a chair."

"You do that."

Castiel looked at the children. Jack seemed to be busy eating his chicken fingers, a smear of barbecue sauce on his cheek. Claire was munching on a fry as her gaze moved inquisitively from Dean to Meg.

Dean dropped the napkins on the table and made a production of pulling up a chair, practically stomping his feet against the tile floor and causing the table he’d ripped the chair from underneath to rattle. The tin legs of the chair clattered as he put it down on the edge of their table. Castiel sighed. He thought, maybe, this entire experience had taken ten years off his life.

"So, how long have you and Castiel been friends?" Meg asked as Dean reached in front of her to slide his plate over. She didn't lean back to allow him room. "He's never mentioned you— _Dan_ , right?"

Had she already forgotten? She'd only just said Dean's name moments ago. "It's Dean," Castiel reminded her politely.

"Yeah, funny," Dean said. He reached for the ketchup bottle and squirted some loudly onto his patty. "I've never heard your name, either."

"I wasn't aware that I had to list all of my acquaintances upon meeting others," Castiel joked flatly. Dean shot him an annoyed glare, but Meg laughed and touched his forearm.

"Just the special ones," she told him.

"Well, he'll be sure to mark you down for next time." Dean took a large bite of his burger, the juices bursting out and dripping to his plate. Castiel turned back to his own burger, but found his appetite was gone.

"Jack, buddy," Dean then said, recapturing Castiel's attention. He ran his finger across his cheek, indicating the spot where Jack's skin was sticky with sauce. "You got a little somethin'."

Jack wiped at the wrong cheek, causing Dean to chuckle, mouth full. "Hang on." He dropped his burger and brushed his hands against his jeans. And then, ridiculously, he grabbed a napkin from the table and stood up. Castiel, starstruck, watched him lean across the table and wipe the smear off Jack's face. He tousled Jack's hair when he was clean, eliciting another wide smile from the boy. Claire groaned and tried to playfully push Dean away, and Dean responded by balling up the napkin and throwing it at her.

"Ew!" she yelped, but she was laughing.

And, just like that, something clicked into place inside of Castiel. He didn’t know what it was, or what it meant, but he thought he might burst with it. He couldn’t take his eyes off Dean. This evening had already been stressful enough, but this . . . whatever it was—it felt too big to fit in his body.

It moved in like a tornado, ripping up the vast and lonely land and leveling carefully built walls and structures. It passed just as quickly, unburdened and unknowing of the devastation it left in its wake.

Dean Winchester was his ruination, and there was no undoing it now.

It was oddly freeing.

Dean kept playing with Claire without any idea of what he’d just done. And, truthfully, Castiel didn’t know what he’d done, either. He realized that Meg was speaking to him, but he hadn't heard a single word.

Andrea came back over and asked, "Can I get any desserts started for you?"

_Apple pie. Dutch, if you have it. A scoop of vanilla ice cream on the side._

Dean looked up at her. "You got any pie today?"

///

All throughout dinner, Dean had been trying to figure out where he'd seen Meg before. She looked so familiar, but whenever he thought he was close to remembering, it was like a wall went up inside his brain. It was frustrating as hell, especially because he was sure he'd remember meeting someone who was on such a supreme level on the bitch-o-meter that she nearly broke the scale.

And the way she'd looked at him, like she knew exactly who he was. He wished she had told him.

Then, of course, there was the way she looked at Cas, which made Dean go from frustrated to just plain livid. Cas was oblivious to what she was trying to do with those arm touches and phony laughs and flirty, heated smiles, but Dean wasn't. He was pretty sure she was doing it on purpose, taunting him because she knew she had a better chance with Cas than he did.

But that would be crazy, right? Meg couldn't know how Dean felt about Cas. He thought he was doing a pretty good job at playing it close to the chest. He was probably just projecting.

Maybe she was being a bitch just for the sake of it, and she had a habit of marking her territory against anyone who looked in her general direction. Which of course, was part of the problem, because she saw Cas as her territory in the first place.

But maybe it was better this way. Because Dean didn't have a shot in hell with Cas, and it'd be better if he didn't ruin their friendship by doing something stupid. He knew that, logically; it was just his hopeful subconscious that needed a kick in the balls. Maybe, if Cas were unavailable, it would get the message loud and clear.

After they left the diner, they dropped the kids back off at the orphanage, and Dean turned the Impala in the direction of Cas' apartment building.

Night had already fallen, and a few bright stars that overcame the town's light pollution peeked out of the blackness. There was a Metallica tape in the stereo playing on low, and Dean's eyes kept flickering off the road to surreptitiously look at Cas. He could see the long, straight line of Cas' nose reflected in the window as he looked out of it, hands folded loosely on his lap.

Dean opened and closed his mouth a few times, trying to find a way to word what he wanted to say. But every time he tried, he felt what he was really thinking rise up in his throat like bile. He had to clamp his jaw before they tumbled out in a rush of, _I'm pretty sure you’re not into me and your family is full of bigoted douchbags and my dad would lose his shit on the off-chance this went somewhere but we should really make out._

Yeah, that would be bad.

But, with every mile that brought them closer to Cas' apartment, the more the urge to do just that rose up. And that was exactly why Dean had to steer Cas towards Meg, because he'd totally lose his nerve if he didn't right here and now.

"So," he forced himself to say, and his voice sounded way too loud in such a small space. Cas must have thought so, too, because he started slightly and turned his head towards Dean.

Lowering the volume, Dean went on, "That Meg chick. You see her often?"

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Cas shrug. "I suppose. She and I are . . . friends."

Dean's hands tightened around the steering wheel at some point during the pause between _are_ and _friends_. He swallowed. "Good friends?"

"I barely know her." He faced forward again, watching the Impala eat up the road. They were driving through campus now, and Cas' building wasn't very far. "I met her the same night I met you. At Harvelle's."

Harvelle's! That's right! The image flashed before Dean's eyes: Balthazar and some girl had used Cas as a get out of jail free card. He realized he couldn't picture her face in the memory, but it must have been where he knew Meg.

His gut told him he was still missing something.

He pushed forward, "You like her?" He turned his eyes fully towards Cas now. There was no one else on the road, anyway, and it was a pretty straight shot, so he could probably get away with not paying too much attention.

Cas met his gaze levelly. "She seems agreeable."

That wasn't exactly the word Dean would have used.

"Yeah, but do you _like_ her?"

Cas frowned, and Dean didn't know how he could explain it any clearer. He tried anyway. "You know? Like her. Do you wanna be with her?"

Cas paused, his mouth falling open like he was going to answer, but nothing came out. After a little while, he said tentatively, "I'm with you."

 _Shit_. Dean's heart might as well have burst out of his chest and landed right into Cas' lap. He made himself look back at the road.

"No, not like that," he said. "I mean, do you wanna get with her?"

Cas seemed to get the idea, because he asked, "Do I want to date Meg?"

 _Date_ , right. What did it say about Dean that he didn't even think to use that word?

"Sure."

Another pause. He felt Cas' eyes searching his profile, and Dean tried very hard not to tense under the scrutiny. He pretended he didn't notice. "I don't know," Cas answered eventually. "I never really thought about it."

Dean made the turn onto Cas' street, and his building soon came into view. It was a relief, because Dean regretted starting this conversation and he really wanted it to end.

He reminded himself that he had to see this through, because he had to nip this crush in the bud before it became too much to handle. It already felt like it was too late.

"Well, I can tell you what—she likes you," Dean said, turning the wheel with the flat of his hand to pull up to the curbside.

"She does?"

"Hell yeah." Without driving to distract him, Dean had no other option but to turn to Cas. Anything else would be too obvious. Cas was already facing him, eyes glistening with the dim reflection of the streetlights and skin darkened by the shadows.

"How do you know?" Dean hated how eager he sounded.

"Trust me. If there's one thing I know, it's when someone's into somebody else."

Cas' eyes fell downward in thought, and then he reoriented his body to face the front.

Dean twisted the steering wheel in his hands. His pulse was racing and his stomach was hurting and his throat closed in an attempt to shut him up, but somehow he said, "You should text her. Ask her to hang out this Saturday."

Cas dropped his shoulders in a closed-mouth sigh. "Hang out?"

"It's what the kids are calling it these days," Dean joked, pulling a lopsided smirk. It fell flat.

Cas arched a brow at him, and Dean had to pretend like his body temperature didn't rise a full degree whenever he did that.

"If it's a date, why not call it a date?"

Dean stammered. Why was everything so goddamn difficult with Cas? "I dunno, man! Just 'cause. It's part of the game."

Frustrated, Cas rubbed at his eyes. "That's ridiculous. I don't want to play."

"Just text her, would ya?"

Cas huffed. "Fine." He pulled out his phone and lit it up, the screen casting a white glow on his features and on the window's glass. He started typing, and Dean wanted to slap the phone out of his hand. He wanted to say, _no, not right now, I didn't mean now, not in front of me, please_.

His knuckles went white on the wheel to prevent himself from doing just that.

There was a vrooming noise that signaled the text was sent, and Cas let his phone fall to his lap. "Happy?" He glared at Dean like it was a challenge, like Dean hadn't done them both a favor.

"I'm happy if you're happy."

That was a lie. He was miserable.

"It'll be good," Dean told him before licking his lips and nodding. He was trying to convince himself more than Cas. "You need to get out more, anyway."

"Now you sound like my siblings."

Dean hated to agree with the Novaks on any issue, but, "Well, maybe they're right about this one."

They both went quiet, neither of them moving, both of them staring down at Cas' phone and waiting for it to light up with Meg's response. Dean secretly wished she'd say no.

"What am I even supposed to do with her on Saturday? How does one 'hang out'?" Cas brought up his hands and formed quotation marks around the words.

Dean realized he didn't have an answer for that. He wasn't really one for dating, but he'd seen enough movies to get the gist of it. "I dunno, Cas. Pick her up at her house. Take her to a restaurant. Drive her home. That kinda thing. Just see where it goes."

Cas stared at him blankly. "Dean," he said. "You do realize you just picked me up, took me to a restaurant, and drove me home?"

Dean was really glad it was nighttime, because his cheeks were burning. He wondered if they were glowing in the dark. "That's different!"

"How?"

"Because we're buddies! And you—." God, he'd really regret asking this, but he just had to double check. "You don't wanna get with me, right?" He pushed a weak smile, and immediately decided he didn't want to hear the answer. For good measure, he added, "'Cause I sure as hell don't wanna get with you."

Was he laying it on too thick? Christ. He was such a mess.

Cas didn't answer. His eyes just kept boring into Dean, hard and unblinking, like he’d completely shut down. He went all robotic, which is something Dean hadn’t seen him do since before they became friends.

Dean couldn’t even focus on that, because he was too busy having a distinct out of body experience due to just how much of an idiot he actually was, because there was no way Cas didn't see right through him.

He was brought back into his own skin by the sound of Cas' phone chiming with a text. It was the standard factory setting noise, because of course Cas wouldn't know how to change it.

Cas blinked away and picked up his phone again. "She said, 'Thought you'd never ask,' and there's an emoji with a heart coming out of its mouth instead of a punctuation. Does that mean yes?"

Dean didn't know why he was disappointed. He saw this coming. Hell, he was the one who made it happen.

And, guess what, his subconscious still wasn't taking the hint that he and Cas had no future together. Go figure.

"Yeah," he answered. Cas stayed silent. "Anyway, I better get going."

"Oh—yes, I . . ." Cas reached for the door handle. "Goodnight, Dean."

As Cas got out of the car, Dean wanted to pull him back and kiss him until he forgot all about Meg. Instead, he grinned and dipped his head forward to made eye contact with Cas from under the top of the car. "Hey, let me know how the date goes!"

Cas nodded, and closed the door. Dean watched him trudge up the walkway to his building and disappear through the entrance. He let out a breath, and told himself again that it was better this way—not just for him, but for Cas, too.

He didn't want to lose their friendship, which is exactly what would happen if he thought he had any kind of shot whatsoever. Besides, he wasn’t relationship material.

He put the car back into drive and stepped on the gas, headed for the main road.

And then it hit him. He almost swerved off the road in the realization. An image flashed to the forefront of his mind. It was Meg opening the door for him.

That's how he knew her. He'd delivered a package to her house. Her dad was wrapped up in whatever business Crowley was in.

Dean kicked himself. He just set his best friend up with the future Griselda Blanco.

///

It was an hour to opening, and Dean was already running late. It wasn’t his fault, really. He’d stayed late at Bobby’s helping him with the fender of some douchebag’s souped up Civic after they crashed it in a drag race, and he had to go home and shower off before heading to the bar.

And, yeah, okay, maybe he’d taken an extra long shower, but that wasn’t his fault either. He got distracted with the thought of Cas, who was probably at that same moment getting ready for his date with Meg. There’d been radio silence between them all day, and Dean sure as hell wasn’t going to text him first. And he definitely wasn’t going to wish him luck.

Because what if Cas had a good time? What if he and Meg really hit it off? Shit, did that mean Meg would be hanging around more?

Dean really wanted to text him. His gut swam when he realized he hadn’t gone a single day without talking to Cas, and this would end that streak.

Cas probably didn’t even notice.

He parked the Impala and headed for the back door, keys fumbling in his hands as he did. Ellen had asked him to open up that night without her, and he doubted Ash would have done him a favor by getting started.

He had a mental checklist as he walked: run the dishwasher, wipe down the tables, bring another box of vodka up from the storage room, slice up some garnishes. Shit—hadn’t he run out of lemons last night? Damn it. He didn’t have time to run over to the grocery store.

“You look hurried,” a smooth, familiar voice came from the corner of the building closest to the sidewalk. Dean definitely did not jump. He glared at Crowley, who was leaning one shoulder against the brick, one hand in his coat pocket.

Dean really didn’t have time for him. “I am,” he barked.

He hadn’t seen Crowley in weeks, and he was okay with keeping it that way. Even though, if he was being totally honest, his wallet was starting to get a little thin again. He tried to stay away from the poker games, because he really didn’t want another run in with Gordon. Even if he went to the smaller games, he was sure Gordon put his name out to everyone who was anyone. Dean didn’t need a repeat of last time, especially with someone a lot less rational than Gordon Walker.

He tried testing his luck at other bars in the area, hustling pool or darts. The money was nowhere near as good as the games, and definitely nothing like he was making working for Crowley.

On top of that, Dad hadn’t sent a check in months.

Life didn’t come cheap, especially when he was grocery shopping for a sasquatch who could put away an entire pizza plus garlic bread in one sitting.

A smirk spread across Crowley’s cheeks. “No time for a quickie with your old pal Crowley?”

Dean rolled his eyes, his head with them. He guessed he had time for a quick talk, provided they skipped over the skeevy double entendres. “What do you want, Crowley?”

“Have it your way.” Crowley pushed himself off the wall and strolled closer. “Turns out you and I made a rather good team. My profit margins went way up thanks to your veritable disregard of traffic laws. I thought, maybe, you’d be interested in continuing our arrangement. But if you don’t want it . . .” He let himself trail off, and pointed behind himself to signal he’d leave if Dean wanted him to.

And Dean _really_ wanted him to.

Because he couldn’t keep doing this. He’d been fine before Crowley. He’d only needed the money to get himself out of a tight spot. And he’d gotten out of it, so he was done. He didn’t want any part of whatever Crowley had sucked him into; hell, he’d been lucky he hadn’t been arrested the first time.

No way. It was playing with fire. It’d burn him any second.

He fiddled with the keys between his hands, rolling them from his knuckles to his fingertips, listening to them clack together. The tip of the bullet shell he’d fashioned into a keychain poked into his palm.

Then again, worrying about _maybe_ getting arrested was better than worrying about _definitely_ not being able to pay rent. That kind of security was at least worth some consideration.

“Going once . . . going twice. . .” Crowley started walking backwards.

“Hang on.”

He halted.

Dean stood up a little straighter and took in a steadying breath. He wasn’t desperate. If Crowley wanted him back, they were doing this on his terms.

“I want thirty-percent.”

“Eighteen,” Crowley shot back.

“Twenty-five.”

“Twenty.”

That’s what he’d really been going for, anyway. “Done. And no more of this coming to my job,” he said, pointing a finger and waving it around at their general location. How the hell Crowley even knew where he worked was beyond him. It was kind of creepy, actually. He didn’t want to think about it. “You want me, you call. Or text. I don’t need you hanging around here stirring up trouble. Got it?”

Crowley looked way too smug. “Your wish is my command. Anything else?”

Dean puckered his lips, wondering what else he could squeeze out of Crowley. Maybe he should ask him to pick up some lemons?

“No.”

“Excellent,” Crowley said, voice one notch up from toneless. He lifted his brows, making his forehead line. “I’ll be in touch.” He spun around on his expensive heels walked casually out to the sidewalk.

Dean checked his watch. Forty-six minutes to opening. He didn’t have time to regret the decision he just made. He also resolved himself to using limes instead of lemons and hoping no one would notice.

You gotta do what you gotta do.

///

Castiel had never imagined going on a date would require so much small talk. That had always been something he’d struggled with. He didn’t know how to comment on the weather, because it was all rather obvious and available for all to see in the forecast. He couldn’t talk about popular television shows because he didn’t watch them. And he wasn’t even able to talk very much about the food they’d been given, because the portions at the restaurant were very small.

He’d taken Meg to a French brasserie near downtown that he knew Anael liked. He thought it would be date appropriate, and it was. They dined by candlelight and there was a pianist in the center of the dining room. There were white tablecloths and leather chairs, and the utensils were set according to the rules of etiquette. All members of the wait staff were in black, pressed suits; and they were very attentive, especially when it came to topping up water glasses. The menu was in French and every item was over twenty dollars.

The only thing Castiel could think about was how much Dean would have hated it.

Apart from that, the evening had been pleasant enough. Meg kept asking him questions, which he was expected to answer, to make casual conversation, and he did his best to appease her even when he was unsure of himself. Regardless, she seemed to have enjoyed herself, if the smiles and concupiscent gazes she kept shooting his way were any indication.

Perhaps Dean had been right. This may have been a good idea.

His siblings would have certainly thought so. He believed they would approve of her. She was from a family of high standing, with good schooling and a plethora of opportunity. On a more personal level, he assumed they’d get along with her. She had Michael’s savvy, a mind to parallel Raphael’s; she had Anael’s snark and Uriel’s wit. He thought he even saw in her Gabriel’s mischief, Anna’s strength, and Lucifer’s temperament.

Meg was a force all of her own, there was no denying that.

Maybe, in time, he could learn to appreciate these traits. He had to admit, she was growing on him.

“So, you excited the semester’s almost over?” she asked on the drive back to her house.

He wasn’t sure _excited_ was the right word, but he was relieved. “Yes. It’ll be nice not having to study for a month.”

She snorted, and rolled her head against the seat to look over at him. “You can say that again. I can’t wait to catch up on sleep.”

“You can’t actually catch up on sleep,” he told her. “Your body may require more rest at points, but you can’t undo the wakefulness of the previous sleep cycles—.”

“Just say you can’t wait either.”

He pressed a tight smile to his lips and briefly glanced at her before returning his eyes to the road. His hands remained at ten-and-two. “I can’t wait either.”

For some reason, she found that funny, but Castiel did plan on sleeping half the time. The other half, he planned on spending with the Winchesters.

He turned onto the highway leading towards her neighborhood, the clicking of the turn signal filling up the silence.

“You going anywhere for the holiday?” she then asked, as if unable to let any stretch of quiet go by between them. He didn’t know if he was grateful for that or not. He supposed it would be awkward if they didn’t speak.

“No,” he said. “My family usually hosts a fundraising gala for one of the local charities on Christmas Eve. Preparations for it usually bar us from traveling this time of year.”

Meg let out a mocking sound. “’Course you are. Because you’re all saints, and you’re all gonna skip the line when it’s your turn to get into heaven.” He didn’t know how to respond to that. “What’s the charity this year?”

“The orphanage.”

She gave another short, guttural noise and said, “You really care about those brats, huh?”

His hands tightened fractionally on the steering wheel. He wanted to point out that they weren’t brats, even if Claire did test him sometimes. He supposed that was normal for someone so young who had been through so much already. He simply said, “Yes.”

There was a short silence between them, and Castiel had been right. It _was_ awkward.

“Well, that’ll be fun,” Meg said, her voice airy. She paused again, as if leaving him time to say something, but he didn’t know what she wanted from him.

He turned into her development.

Dropping her shoulders, she changed the subject. “Yeah, we’re not going anywhere, either. Tom and me usually go visit our mom in Kansas City for Christmas, but we were just out there for Thanksgiving. So, we’re here with Dad.”

Castiel pulled the truck over to the side of the street and put it in park in front of her house. All the lights were off inside. He knew she probably wanted to get out, and perhaps this was too heavy a topic for a date, but he knew she was having trouble at home. He turned to her with a sympathetic expression. “How _are_ things with your father?”

She frowned, and waved it away like it was no big deal. “Still pretty much the same. Still not telling me shit. But we’re good for now.”

He nodded, and thought that was the end of it, but she looked like she had more to say. He waited for her to either speak or get out.

Eventually, she sighed through her nose and continued. “I snuck into his home office the other night and found something. Not sure if I should confront him about it.”

“If it’s weighing on you, maybe you should,” he said, trying to be helpful.

She choked in what sounded like a laugh. “You don’t even know what it was.”

He looked down, one hand still resting on the steering wheel. None of this was his business, and he shouldn’t get involved. Maybe Meg was right, anyway. If her father truly was implicated in illicit activity, it was better if she distanced herself from him. But she would do what she thought was right.

“You wanna see it?”

His eyes snapped back up to meet hers. She had a brow raised, eyes impish, and hints of smirk. Anna always said he was too curious for his own good.

He followed her to the front stoop, and she unlocked the door, then disarmed the alarm system once they were inside. She led him towards the back of the house, to a door that he assumed was Azazel’s home office. She tested the handle, but it clicked after moving only a fraction of an inch.

“It’s locked,” Castiel pointed out.

“Yeah. But it’s an old lock,” Meg told him, voice strained as she jiggled the handle, and lifted it up with all her might. “You just gotta—.” The door opened, and the room beyond it was dark. She looked at him with a mischievous expression. “ _Voila_.”

When she flipped on the light, Castiel saw the office was a small room with a wooden desk, an old rolling chair, and a bookshelf. There were stacks of papers and notepads atop the desk, and a green accountant’s lamp. A framed painting of the main street of downtown Lawrence was hung on the wall.

He followed Meg around the desk, where she crouched down and opened the drawer at the bottom. There were a few discarded external hard drives and black wires inside, and he wondered if whatever she wanted to show him was on one of them. But she quickly emptied them out and dug her fingers against the side of the drawer. A false bottom popped out, and Castiel squinted until a hidden, small cardboard box came into focus.

Standing, she picked the boxed up out of the drawer and set it down on top of the desk.

“Get a load of this,” she said, pulling back the flaps that had been overlaid to keep the box closed. He peered inside, and saw it was filled with what looked like prescription medications. There must have been dozens of transparent orange or green pill bottles, each with a printed label and a white safety cap. Pills of different sizes, shapes, and colors were in each one.

“He’s in pharmaceuticals, alright,” Meg said dryly, folding her arms across her chest.

“What are these?” Castiel’s fingers twitched to pick one of the bottles up, but he refrained.

“Drugs,” Meg told him, like he couldn’t parse that out for himself. She went on to explain, “It’s a fuck ton of shit. There’s some oxy in there, but there’s also like—anti-depressions and insulin. There’s even some stuff for ED.”

He looked back up at her, his brow creasing. “You think your father’s a drug dealer?”

She laughed. “I think that’s pretty obvious, don’t you?” She swiveled to the side and went into the top drawer, tucking a strand of wavy hair behind her ear as she did so. “I found this, too.” She pulled out a leather bound book, opened it, and offered it to Castiel.

He took it tentatively and peered down at the pages. It appeared to be some sort of handwritten ledger. There were names listed in one column: J. Abaddon, F. Crowley, R. Doe. Meg’s brother’s name was listed, too. Next to them were price points, the highest being fifty thousand dollars.

“I think those are the people who sell for him,” Meg told him. Castiel glanced up at her slowly from over the page. “Makes sense, doesn’t it? I mean, he has access to this shit. He runs the lab at the hospital, you know?”

Castiel hadn’t known that. Azazel only told him he’d worked in pharmaceuticals. “The hospital,” he said, realization dawning on him. Trying not to make any sudden movements to arouse suspicion, he closed the ledger and handed it back to her. Casually, he picked up one of the bottles and pretended to study it.

It had the LMH logo on it. Evangelist had a majority interest in the hospital. If it got out that someone inside was selling its drugs on the black market, it could be disastrous for the company, and for his family.

It wouldn’t matter if Michael had no part in this. The public would crucify him, and so might the courts. Lucifer was already behind bars; the last thing the Novaks needed was Michael locked inside with him.

“So, what do you think?” Meg asked, turning away again to place the book back in the drawer. Her hair draped itself in front of her face. Castiel swiftly pocketed the pill bottle he was holding into his coat. She closed the drawer and looked back at him, resting one hand on the desk and leaning into it. “You think I should tell him I know?”

It was a loaded, complicated situation. Castiel didn’t have an answer for her. He prayed there was another, reasonable explanation for this, but found himself doubting it. “I don’t know. I wouldn’t want you to get hurt.”

Her face softened, but only for a second before she readjusted her features into something sardonic. “Aw, you’re sweet, Clarence.”

He pressed his lips together, not knowing what to say. He had to find an excuse to leave. He had to warn his brothers about what was going on right under their noses.

Part of him didn’t want to. Prescription drugs were expensive through legal channels, especially for those without healthcare. If people were getting the medications they needed this way, he didn’t want to prevent that. However, the fact remained, it was still illegal, and serious harm could come from it. He had no choice.

“I should go,” he told her.

She straightened out a little, seeming disappointed. “You sure? Nobody’s home. We could, you know, hang out?”

He shook his head politely. He really had to go. “Rain check?” he asked, remembering her words from months ago.

She smiled, satisfied. “Sure.”

She closed the box again and placed it carefully back into the bottom drawer, and then put everything back where she found it. On the way out of the office, she switched off the light and turned the lock on the inside of the door before closing it. She tested it to make sure it was locked again.

They walked towards the front door together, Castiel’s hands in his pockets. His knuckles kept brushing against the plastic bottle, and he fought the urge to wrap his hand around it. He didn’t want it to start rattling. Once he was on the stoop outside, he turned around to say goodnight to her.

She leaned her shoulder against the frame of the open door, shoving her hands into the back pockets of her jeans. “Hey, you won’t tell anybody, right? About my dad?” she asked, but she already knew the answer. If she didn’t trust him to keep quiet, she would have never showed him in the first place.

“You have my word,” he promised.

She nodded. Then, she looked up at him expectantly, chewing on her lower lip. Again, he was at a loss for what she intended him to do. Perhaps one day he’d learn to read her.

“Well,” he said. “Goodnight.” He turned around and made for his car.

Behind him, he heard her say, “Oh, uh—yeah. ‘Night, angel.”

The yellow light pouring onto the grass from the house was cut out when she closed the door, and he picked up his speed a little as he walked towards his truck. Once inside, he fished the pill bottle out of his pocket and studied the small yellow pills inside. He had to tell Michael.

He drove in the direction of the lake, and considered that he didn’t know whether Michael would be at his home or at the office. He could always call Hannah to find out, but he hated to disturb her at this time of night, especially on a Saturday. He hoped she wasn’t working. Besides, he didn’t want her asking questions. This was better kept as a family matter for the time being.

But he felt as if this situation were urgent. He realized it might very well be, as he remembered Sergeant Billie’s meeting with his brother. Maybe she already knew what was going on, and Michael was a suspect.

It occurred to him that Raphael might be at his residence, so he made for it.

Raphael’s house was in the same development as their family home, and he purposefully did not look at the pointed roofs and tall Roman columns, the great rose window above the entrance or the gates leading to the driveway as he drove past the house he grew up in.

He pulled into the horseshoe driveway of Raphael’s house, and thankfully the lights from inside were on. He rushed up to the door and pressed hard on the doorbell. When he didn’t immediately hear footsteps from inside, he pounded his fist against the burgundy wood of the door. “Raphael? Open up!”

He heard someone approaching, so he stepped back from the door and waited. It swung open to reveal Raphael’s valet. “Bartholomew,” Castiel said, “is Raphael home?”

Bartholomew looked him up and down, and Castiel again got the sense that he didn’t like him very much. That was fine; he didn’t have to. He just had to do his job.

“He’s in his study,” was the answer. “But he was very adamant about not wanting any disturbances.”

“He’ll want this one.” Castiel shoved by him and rushed across the foyer, hearing his shoes clack against the tile and echo on the high ceiling. He ignored Bartholomew calling after him, and jounced up the stairs, one step a few from the top creaking under his weight like it always had, towards Raphael’s study. He didn’t bother knocking before bursting inside.

Raphael was at his desk, an expensive fountain pen in his hand as he wrote something out on Evangelist stationary, the logo of black wings on the top right corner of the page. Behind him, a full bookshelf made up an entire wall, and Castiel had always been envious of it. To the right of the room, two large floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the crescent moon sparking silver on the lake.

Raphael looked up abruptly as Castiel marched in. “Castiel,” he said, “what a pleasant surprise.” He didn’t look or sound very pleased, but that was par for the course. Castiel could probably count on one hand how many times he’d seen his brother make any facial expression at all.

“I apologize for not calling ahead, but I have something to tell you. It’s important,” Castiel said, coming to stand in front of the desk.

Raphael laid his pen down next to the paper and gave him his attention.

Castiel didn’t see the point of small talk beforehand, so he launched right into it. “I believe someone from Lawrence Memorial’s lab is selling medication outside the hospital.”

Raphael turned his head slightly to the side in question. “Is that so? And what led you to this belief?”

Castiel reached into his coat and pulled out the pill bottle. He reached across the desk to hand it over, and Raphael took it slowly from him and studied the label.

“Where did you get this?” he said after he was finished reading it.

Castiel paused. He would keep his promise to Meg about not speaking of her father’s involvement, and he meant what he said about her not wanting to get hurt; but if this was looked into, and Azazel was indeed behind it, there was nothing he could do. Azazel would have made his own bed, and Castiel’s conscience would be clear.

“Someone was selling it on campus,” he lied. “A student. I . . . A friend had these in their dormitory. I found them and asked where she’d gotten them. She told me.”

Raphael seemed to accept the story. He looked back down at the bottle. “These are anxiety pills. Does this friend of yours have a mental affliction?”

Castiel was just relieved it wasn’t a medication for something less easy to explain away. Anxiety was common. Lots of people suffered from it. People who weren’t Novaks.

He wished Raphael wasn’t so quick to judge others, and then realized he was being ridiculous. The story wasn’t even true. This so-called friend was a fabrication.

“Finals are taking their toll. That’s all.”

Raphael sat back in his chair coolly, and put the bottle down on his desk. “I appreciate you bringing this to my attention. You were right to do so, brother. Such a thing could be linked back to us. The last thing we want is another scandal.”

Castiel nodded. He was happy this was out of his hands now. “So, you’ll look into it?”

“I’ll speak with Michael,” he said. “Don’t trouble yourself with this any longer. Focus on your schoolwork. I wish you luck with final exams.”

Castiel knew he was dismissed. He turned around, starting out of the study.

“Oh, and, Castiel?”

He stopped, his back still facing Raphael.

“Good work with this. Perhaps I’ve been underestimating you.”

Castiel’s fists tightened at his side, and his nostrils flared in a white-hot spike of anger. He looked over his shoulder, and he knew he shouldn’t say anything. It had been meant as a compliment, no matter how underhanded. He should keep his thoughts to himself, as he always had in the past. He should go.

“Perhaps,” he said, and left without closing the door.

It had been one word. Two syllables. That was all. It was a small insurrection, one Raphael would probably forget long before he set his head down to sleep that night. But, for some reason, to Castiel, it felt like rebellion.


	6. Chapter 6

Dean didn’t really know how it happened. One second, everything was normal; the next, he had Cas sprawled out on top of him in the back seat of the Impala, kissing him like he’d been starving for it. Dean had his hand in Cas’ hair, tugging on the dark locks and keeping him close. His other was on Cas’ thigh, kneading into the muscles so thick that he couldn’t wrap his fingers around it very far.

Cas’ hands were under the front of Dean’s shirt, smoothing up and down the skin and rubbing lines in the divots between his ribs. He was making soft noises into Dean’s throat and, whenever the kiss broke, Dean’s name was whispered on panting breaths.

The stubble on his chin and throat scratched against Dean’s lips as he kissed down them and nipped at Cas’ Adam’s apple. The scent lifting off his skin was intoxicating, and Dean could almost taste it on his tongue.

“Want you,” Dean muttered into Cas’ shoulder. His jeans were too tight now. Cas shifted his hips further against Dean’s, and it was a nice little surprise to feel the bulge he was sporting, too. Dean gasped when Cas grinded into him, making the leather seat at his back creak.

“ _Dean_.”

There were a few frantic seconds of pulling each other’s shirts off, and then it was just skin on skin. Cas kissed down Dean’s chest and scraped his teeth across his nipples, and it was too much. It was too damn _good_ and he had to sink his fingertips into Cas’ shoulder blades just to keep from coming on the spot.

He realized his pants were off, and so were Cas’, and he didn’t remember that happening but he didn’t care. Because Cas’ tongue was in his mouth again and their bodies were sliding against each other and, “fuck _me_.”

Cas hummed into his ear. “If that’s what you want, Dean,” he whispered, his voice like gravel. His hands moved down Dean’s sides to rest on his hips and lift him up. Dean put one leg over Cas’ waist, and then Cas was sinking into him and filling him up.

He rocked his hips back and forth, thrusting in and out of him and dragging firecrackers with him every time. Dean worked his body to meet him until they found a rhythm. When Cas shifted in just the right way to reach his prostate, Dean had to palm at his back for purchase and dig his teeth into his shoulder.

The Impala’s windows were all fogged up now, and the metal was whining under their movements, but it was hard to focus on anything besides the sound of their skin coming together.

And then he couldn’t even hear that when Cas reached between them and stroked Dean’s erection. He pulled back fractionally to catch Dean’s eyes. The blue around them was swallowed up by his pupils, and his cheeks were flushed pink. His hair was everywhere. His lips were parted in hitching breaths. He was so damn hot, so damn beautiful.

Dean felt like putty in his hands and he couldn’t be happier.

He could feel his orgasm coming up slow from the bottoms of his toes. It tensed his limbs and tightened his muscles. He felt Cas’ body coiling, too, his movements becoming more erratic. Dean’s lungs were burning, and he took a deep breath in, and then he was spilling over.

And the sensation pulled him back into consciousness, and he realized he was thrusting his hips into his mattress. When they slowed, the inside of his boxers were hot and sticky.

“Fuck.”

He buried his face into his pillow and took a few minutes to catch his breath. When he did, he rolled over onto his back and blinked up at the ceiling. He ran his hand through his hair and groaned tiredly.

This was not good.

How the hell was he supposed to look Cas in the eye after that? Now that the image of him sexed-out and orgasming was in the forefront of Dean’s mind? Now that Dean was wondering how close it looked to the real thing?

How the fuck was he supposed to act normal and pretend that hadn’t just happened?

Sure, he’d jerked it enough times in the last couple months, Cas’ face and smile and voice flashing into his imagination as he came; but he was decidedly not beating off to Cas. That’s what he told himself, anyway. He couldn’t really explain this one away.

He hummed in attempt to get himself under control. Half of him wanted to close his eyes and try his damndest to go back into the dream. The other half told him to forget it. Cas was his friend. Cas didn’t want to be anything else and Dean just had to accept that.

He swallowed hard, his heart still pounding. He had to get his mind off of this.

He reached for his phone on the floor next to his mattress and clicked it out of sleep mode. A few notification banners were on his screen. The top one was for a twitter post linking to a news article about the empty lot by the lake Evangelist was cleaning up to make into a park. The tweet above it made it seem like a bad thing, and apparently the rest of twitter agreed.

He ignored that notification. He didn’t use that app very much, anyway. Charlie was the only reason it was even downloaded onto his phone, because, according to her, it was a good way to stay “socially aware.”

There were a couple of texts from Charlie and, in case Dean’s morning wasn’t stressful enough, one from Cas. He opened Charlie’s first.

_Party tonight at one of the frats. U in?_

The second one read: _Cas is gonna be there_. A winking emoji was tacked onto the end.

Dean thumbed at the screen to get to Cas’ message.

_Balthazar is forcing me to attend a fraternity party tonight. Please come so I don’t have to be social._

He added an emoji, too, this one of two hands held together in prayer.

Dean didn’t know how he was supposed to say no to that. Cas was practically begging, and Dean definitely needed a drink after that whole wet dream fiasco. But his dick was still sensitive and pulsing and he just _knew_ it was inevitable that it would start up again the second he saw Cas in person.

At least there would be other people there. Charlie might try to get them to hook up, but Balthazar would be a good buffer. Maybe Sam and Eileen could join, too.

Going against his better judgment, he texted Cas back, _sure_ , like it was nothing—like he didn’t wish he could retract the message as soon as he sent it. Like his heart didn’t stop when it saw it was delivered. Like he didn’t almost scream when he got the read receipt.

Cas texted him back a thumbs up emoji.

Dean was in deep shit.

///

Castiel was already slightly tipsy by the time they walked up to the row of fraternity houses on campus just a little before midnight. Dean, Sam, and Eileen had shown up at his and Balthazar’s apartment at 9:30 to pregame, and Dean brought with him a bottle of Jack Daniels that they managed to polish off between the five of them. Although, admittedly, Dean drank most of it. Balthazar, on the other hand, drank most of the lemonade-flavored handle of vodka that had been sitting in their freezer for a week.

They played a few rounds of flip cup on the breakfast table as they got ready to go out. It was a themed party that was a yearly tradition amongst the fraternities of KU as the last party of the calendar year. This year’s was jungle themed, and promised to be a blowout, or so said all the students whispering about it in class and planning their attires for it as they studied on the lawn in the shadow of the Campanile.

The thump of the bass could already be heard a few houses down. Castiel squinted ahead at the blurry line of people waiting to get into the two-story mansion. It reached the street, and people shivered against the late autumn wind, the girls rubbing at their bare arms and the boys huddled against them for warmth.

Castiel couldn’t feel much of the cold. The whiskey was like a second skin, and quite good for insulation.

“Hey! Guys! Up here!” a familiar, perky voice called from a little ways up the line. Charlie was jumping up and down, the white faux-fur cloak she wore bouncing with her. She had a blue skirt beneath a white tunic, and accessorized with blue armbands and a headband, and a heavy fake-toothed necklace. She had red markings in the shape of triangles on her face.

Next to her stood a tall brunette woman in a flowing white dress, the sleeves made of lace. Her hair cascaded down her back in loose rivulets, and she wore a crown made of leaves. The make-up around her eyes was heavy and green, and her lips were painted brown.

Castiel thought they weren’t exactly sticking to the theme, but Dean seemed delighted as their group reached the two women. “Hey, _Princess Mononoke_!”

Castiel threw a glance over his shoulder, guilty about cutting the line and even more so when he saw those behind them glowering. He turned back around quickly.

“I knew there was a reason we were friends,” Charlie told Dean. She turned to the woman next to her, placing a hand delicately on her shoulder. “Everyone, this is Gilda. Gilda, meet everyone.”

They exchanged names, and Castiel learned that Gilda was dressed as a forest nymph. He had to admit, it was a creative take on the theme. Most people on line around them were dressed in camouflage and skimpy versions of combat attire or black mini-skirts and tiger-print tops and ears.

“Lookin’ good there, Indie,” Charlie complimented Dean, who was wearing a fedora hat, a cargo shirt unbuttoned so low that Castiel had to remind himself not to stare, a jacket, and brown pants. A fake whip was rolled up on his belt, and a satchel was slung across his body. He beamed back at Charlie.

Sam snorted. “Please. Don’t encourage him. He’s had that costume in his closet for like, fifteen years. I think he goes out and buys a new one every time he grows.”

“Not anymore, Sammy. I’m done growing,” Dean said proudly. He took off his whip and snapped it out, safely away from the line but a few people jumped and glared anyway. Castiel found himself grinning at the antics, but Dean didn’t return his gaze.

It was odd. He couldn’t help but notice that Dean had been avoiding eye contact for most of the night. It wasn’t something Castiel was used to with him.

“Yeah, sucks for you, tiny,” Sam teased. He and Eileen went as Tarzan and Jane. She wore a white tank top and a long maroon skirt. He wore a brown tunic that was only held up by one shoulder and sandals. Basketball shorts poked out from under the bottom of his costume.

“Says the dude in the skirt,” Dean shot back.

“Hey, don’t knock it,” Balthazar said with a wink. His costume was like Sam’s, only there was much less of it. He was completely topless, his chest and toned stomach painted with black camouflage paint. He wore a cheetah print loincloth that wrapped around his hips. Thankfully it was concealing enough to cover him, but Castiel didn’t want to ask whether or not he was wearing anything beneath it.

As for himself, Dean had insisted on picking Castiel’s costume. He wore a grey t-shirt under a pinstriped button down beneath a brown jacket, brown loose-fitting trousers, and sneakers. He also wore a white pinstriped Yankee baseball cap that Dean had brought over for him. He had no idea what that had to do with the jungle, but Dean seemed adamant.

As they approached the front of the line, Castiel saw a fraternity brother dressed fully in a gorilla suit at the door. “Fifteen bucks cover charge. Cough it up,” he was saying, voice muffled by the costume and barely audible because of the music coming from inside. They all went through their pockets to take out their money, and Castiel returned Balthazar’s cash that he’d been holding.

“Okay. Party, and then drunk pizza and mozzarella sticks after. Who’s in?” Dean asked, rubbing his hands together eagerly, when they were next in line. He looked at Castiel. “You ready, Short Round?”

“I still don’t know what that means,” Castiel told him frankly.

“I’ll add it to the movie list.”

Castiel rolled his eyes. “Fine. I’m ready.” He stepped a little closer to Dean, putting his hand on his elbow so he wouldn’t lose him once they got inside. Dean coughed a little, and it sounded fake. He leaned away, out of Castiel’s touch, and took a side-step that he no doubt tried to make inconspicuous.

He had been doing that all night—standing back when Castiel got close to him, making an excuse to go to the other side of the room whenever Castiel touched him. More still, Dean’s usual pats on the shoulder as he passed by, slaps on the chest when he got excited, or hands on the dip of Castiel’s spine as they whispered to each other, heads tilted in and Dean’s mouth at Castiel’s ear, were all absent.

It made Castiel’s mind buzz and face flush with worry that he’d been found out. That, somehow, Dean had worked out Castiel’s strange and confusing feelings towards him and was attempting to distance himself. He didn’t want that. He missed their closeness. He wondered how he could get it back, could somehow convince Dean that he was only looking for friendship. Even if that weren’t strictly true, it would have to be good enough.

Castiel was so deep in thought that he almost missed the exuberance of his friends as they entered the house. It was decorated brilliantly. Fake miniature bamboo trees lined every wall. A net was strung up from the ceiling, laden with foliage. The floor was completely covered in sand and dirt. The only lighting was dim and tinted green or gold. A DJ was in one corner; the table in front of him had wooden masks nailed to the front. A few sorority girls, wearing animal-print togas and heavy face paint to resemble tigers and lions, were going around with trays of alcohol in bamboo cups, offering them to the throngs of people packed into the house. A painted banner reading _KU’s Rumble in the Jungle_ hung from the ceiling.

Perhaps most impressive was the staircase in the center of the entrance foyer. It was made to look like a waterfall, with a wide aquamarine slip and slide laid on top of it. Gallons of water were rushing down it from a hose at the top, ending up in a large inflatable pool at the bottom of the stairs. People were using plastic snow sleds to slide down it.

“Oh, we _gotta_ do that!” Dean exclaimed as soon as he laid eyes on it. Standing in front of Castiel, he turned to Charlie and shouted, “This is so much cooler than the toga party we went to last year!”

Charlie nodded wildly in agreement. “How do you think they’re doing that with the hose?”

“Looks like a water pump,” Dean shouted, pointing towards the blow up pool. There was a sizeable black machine submerged in the water, its top just above the surface. Castiel squinted at it, and saw the same hose as the one at the top of the stairs hooked up to a valve on the machine. “Think it’s recirculating. Like a fountain.”

Castiel leaned in, but not close enough that it would make Dean pull away. “I assume one of the fraternity brothers is an engineering major.”

Dean whooped happily. He was clearly already drunk. He usually had a strong constitution for alcohol, but he’d certainly already had quite a lot of it. “ _Awesome_ use—school—! Guy should—A plus!” he yelled, but Castiel could only hear every other word as the song switched over to something louder.

The reverberations of the song were pulsing through Castiel’s shoes, and the crowd was jostling around them. Near the DJ, a dance floor had formed in the house’s front room. The air was humid and suffocating and smelled sweetly of alcohol, sweat, and dried leaves.

Their group shoved further into the house, forming a chain with Dean in the front. Gilda held onto the back of his arm to stay together, and Castiel tried not to notice that he wasn’t shaking her away. Charlie held onto Gilda and Castiel did the same to Charlie. Behind him, Balthazar was clutching his shoulder, and Eileen and Sam followed. They dispersed once they got to the kitchen, which was a tornado of overturned red Solo cups, empty beer bottles on every surface, and half-empty liquor bottles.

There was a metal tub filled with ice and beer on the floor. Dean took one and opened it with his ring. Castiel very pointedly did not look at his Adam’s apple bouncing as he tilted his head back and drank it down.

There were a few other people in the kitchen with them, either getting more drinks or looking for somewhere to throw out their cans. One girl in a tight black dress and a headband of black, rounded ears sticking out of her hair squeezed by Dean. Her eyes flickered up and down his body, and she gave him a flirtatious smile. He grinned back.

“What are you supposed to be?” he asked.

“A panther,” she answered.

He leaned one elbow against the counter. “Well, I’ll be sure to watch out for the claws.”

“I’m sure you will.” She flashed him one last sultry look before turning and heading out of the kitchen. Dean watched her go, his head tilted and mouth turned down in appreciation as he stared at her ass.

Castiel tried to look away. He was starting to feel far too warm. No one else had noticed the exchange. They were all too busy making themselves drinks. Castiel grabbed a bottle of vodka and poured some of it into a cup, just to busy himself.

Soon enough, they lost Balthazar. Last Castiel had seen him, he’d been flirting with a boy in an army outfit in the hallway. Sam and Eileen got lost next, saying something about heading to the dance floor for a while. Charlie and Gilda plopped down on one of the couches in a back room and proceeded to make out.

As the night went on, Dean seemed to get over whatever was keeping him from getting too close to Castiel. The more he drank, the more his hands grabbed Castiel’s arms, rested on his shoulder blades, touched his sides, dragged him from one room to the other. He was leaning in closer, too, shouting into Castiel’s ear over the music, and turning so he could hear better when Castiel yelled back with a scratchy, sore throat. His breath smelled like beer, and his words were slurred.

“You wanna try the water slide?” Dean asked at one point. Castiel looked over at the stairs. It was probably dangerous, but he was feeling bold. The world was slightly off-kilter and he wasn’t certain anything could physically hurt him at the moment. If it did, he probably wouldn’t feel it. He nodded, trying to save his voice.

Someone directed them to the second set of stairs at the back of the house, and they went up to wait on line for their turn. When they finally got there, Dean took the round plastic sled and set it atop the slide. He sat at the back rim of it and glanced up at Castiel.

“Come on, get in here!” he called, gesturing with his arm for Castiel to come over.

Castiel swallowed. He was suddenly aware of how sweaty his hair was, and he lifted up his hat to air out his forehead before putting it back on. “Together?” he asked unsurely.

Dean nodded, raising his eyebrows to indicate that Castiel get on with it. “You’re holding up the line! Get on here!”

Castiel looked behind him at the people waiting. He didn’t want them to get impatient, but he wasn’t sure situating himself between Dean’s knees like that was the best idea.

Well, on second thought, it was the best idea in the world, but he knew his sober self wouldn’t agree.

Still, against all reasoning, he stood in front of Dean and placed himself in front of him on the sled. It rocked slightly as he situated himself, and he could feel the water rushing beneath him. He grabbed on to one of the banisters to stop them from moving until they were ready.

One of Dean’s arms wrapped around Castiel’s midsection, and the other one was clamped down on the top of his fedora so it wouldn’t fly off. Heart thundering, Castiel leaned back against Dean’s chest.

“Ready?”

“Let’s do this!”

Castiel let go of the railing, and Dean kicked his legs up from either side of them. Castiel lifted his legs, too, and at once they were sailing downwards.

The air was rushing past Castiel’s ears, and he felt his cap lift up. He slapped his hand over the crown of his head in a panic to keep it on. Dean's arm tightened around him. It was an uneven, bumpy ride as the stairs jostled them, and they would probably have bruises the next day, but he didn’t care. Dean was howling with laughter, and his body was bumping against Castiel’s in the best way, and the rush of it all put a wide grin onto Castiel’s face.

It was over almost as soon as it started. Castiel hadn’t thought much about the landing until they were splashing into a heap inside the blow up pool. The foot of water soaked through their clothes and made them stick uncomfortably to their skin, but that was the least of Castiel’s worries.

Dean had landed practically on top of him. He shifted as he tried to get up, his thigh connecting directly with Castiel’s groin. Dean pushed himself up with his hands on either side of Castiel’s head, and their gazes locked for what felt like minutes.

Castiel considered grabbing Dean by the back of the neck and pulling him back down on top of him, pressing their lips together and kissing him silly in the pool of water.

But then the spell was broken. Dean grinned again, a puff of laughter skirting across Castiel’s cheeks, and he lifted himself up. Castiel felt strange without Dean’s weight over him. He realized Dean was offering him a hand to help him up. He grabbed it by the wrist and there was a dizzying rush as he was pulled to his feet. His shoes were still in the pool, and the water was soaking through them.

“Let’s go find a place to dry off,” Dean suggested. Castiel followed him, clothes dripping onto the dirt and socks squelching inside his shoes, through the crowd.

They went back upstairs, where there were significantly fewer people, and found a bathroom. It looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in the better part of a decade, and half a dozen bath towels were layered over each other on hooks on the back of the door.

Dean locked them in after flipping on a light, and Castiel winced at the sudden brightness. He looked at himself in the mirror over the sink. His hat was askew and his face looked sweaty and dull. His jacket was stained darker from the water. He took off his hat and placed it in the sink, and saw his hair curling at the top and behind his ears. It wasn’t his best look.

Dean, on the other hand, wore the battle scars of the party well. If anything, he looked better than he had when the night first started. He apparently didn’t share that sentiment, because he took one look at the mirror and said, “Yikes.”

He took off his hat, too, and then shrugged off his jacket. His shirt stretched and strained over his chest as he did, another button dangerously close to coming undone to reveal even more skin. Castiel busied himself by taking off his own jacket. It was much cooler and more comfortable without it.

He blinked at the light, dots and lines in his vision. He felt dizzy and a step out of sync with his body. And exhausted. He hadn’t realized how much the alcohol was affecting him until that moment.

Dean grunted down at his sopping shirt, pinching it out between his fingers so he could see it better from the angle. “Ah, man! Come on!”

“Here,” Castiel said, moving towards one of the towels on the hooks. He handed one to Dean.

“Dude, gross. You don’t know where those things have been! They probably got ass all over them!”

Castiel laughed loudly. “They have _what_?”

Dean opened and closed his mouth a few times. “Shut up! Gimme that.” He snatched the towel from Castiel’s hands and started wiping himself down.

“Worth it, though. That was pretty fun, huh?”

“Yes,” Castiel said, getting a towel for himself. He scrubbed it into his arms and legs. It didn’t do anything. It was probably better to let his clothes air dry.

“Missed a spot,” Dean said. Before Castiel could react, the world went dark. Dean’s towel was thrown over his head. He felt Dean’s hands clasp his head through the fabric and rough up his hair. When he was done, Castiel sputtered and pulled the towel down, letting it fall on the floor.

Dean expression was humored, his eyes sparkling, despite how blurry they were from drinking. His gaze flittered over Castiel’s features, lingering a fraction of a second too long on the lower part of his face. Something passed over his expression—heady and coquettish.

“You know,” he said slowly, stepping in closer, eyes hooded. Castiel didn’t know what to do. Dean had been avoiding him all night, and he was probably only acting this way because he was drunk. Dean was amorous towards everyone when he was drinking. It didn’t mean anything. And this was completely unfair, not to mention extremely frustrating in more ways than one. “We could go again.”

Castiel backed away until his spine hit the towels on the door. His eyes were wide and unblinking, fixed on Dean. Dean pressed in even closer, until his face was an inch or two away from Castiel’s and his chest was even closer. He put his arms up, hands on the door, boxing Castiel in.

Castiel was suddenly deaf to the music and the chatter coming up from downstairs. The only sounds he heard were his pulse in his ears, the way his throat clicked when he fought to swallow, and Dean’s breath.

“I could sit in the front this time. You want that?”

Everything about this was far too tempting. Because, yes, Castiel wanted that very much.

He kept his arms firmly at his sides, telling himself that under no circumstances should he wrap them around Dean’s waist and pull their bodies together. Under no circumstances should he flip them around so Dean was the one pressed against the door while Castiel did ungodly things to him.

“Dean,” Castiel heard himself whine. His blood was suddenly rushing very low down.

Dean tipped his head in further, the phantom touch of his lips brushing Castiel’s. All Castiel had to do was lift his chin just a little higher.

“Think you’d like that, Cas?”

Castiel was barely a moment away from nodding profusely when a loud series of knocks rattled the door. He could feel them on his back.

In front of him, Dean blinked as if he were coming out of a dream. His eyes flickered away and to the side, and he stood up straight, correcting himself. He cleared his throat into his fist. Castiel was left trying to make his lungs function the way God intended them to.

“We should, uh—ya know. Get back,” Dean said, voice choppy. He wasn’t looking at Castiel again. Instead, he was focusing intently on folding up the towels and putting them on the sink. He picked up his fedora, placed it back on his head, and then picked up the baseball cap. It was bunched in his fist as he held it out for Castiel to take, his gaze fixed on the sink like it was the most fascinating object in all of creation.

Castiel took the hat from him gingerly, careful not to brush his fingers in the process. There was another knock at the door.

“Yeah, we’re coming!” Dean called. Castiel grabbed his jacket off the counter and ripped the door open, wanting to extract himself from that situation immediately. The person waiting outside the door was familiar. It was the girl from earlier who had been dressed as a panther, the one Dean had flirted with. She was glaring at him impatiently, and then her eyes moved behind him to Dean.

They must have looked a sight with their clothes rumpled and wet and Castiel’s hair a mess. Her expression changed into something more amused. Behind him, he heard Dean groan like everything was so unfortunate.

Castiel pushed past her and into the hallway.

He didn’t stop until he was down the stairs, and then he had no idea what to do or where to go. He could try to find one of their friends to distract him. Or he could go straight home, lock himself in his bedroom, and think about what had just happened as he took care of the pulsing in his groin.

He’d never experienced this before—this overwhelming degree of lust. Not until he met Dean Winchester, and not as severely as he felt it then and there. How did people cope like this?

Apparently, he’d stood around weighing his option for too long. A hand clasped him at the shoulder. He jumped, nerves fried, and swiftly grabbed the arm by the wrist on reflex, twisting it as he spun around.

“Ow! _Jesus_ , Cas! Uncle!”

Castiel realized what he was doing. He let go of Dean’s arm and backpedalled a few steps to put some space between them. Dean straightened out, looking shocked, as if he hadn’t been the one who just snuck up on Castiel. He rubbed at his shoulder a little, but seemed to be recovering quickly. Castiel hadn’t twisted hard enough to cause any damage.

“Apologies,” Castiel told him anyway, but he wasn’t sure Dean heard him over the music. It was still loud around them, but the crowd had thinned some due to the hour. It must have been just past 2 AM. Thankfully, the relative space left room to breathe, which Castiel sorely needed.

“Yeah, it’s, uh—it’s cool,” Dean said hesitantly, palming the back of his neck. He was acting strange again, all pushed cheer and feigned nonchalance, trying to repress the memory of what just happened. It caused a visceral reaction in Castiel’s gut as he knew, now more than ever, that Dean would have regretted it the moment he was sober if anything further happened between them.

“Hey, think I saw a keg over in the other room. Wanna hit it up?” Dean said then, his eyes lighting up as he changed the subject. Castiel didn’t know why he agreed. Perhaps he just felt the need to be far more intoxicated than he currently was.

He wished he could bounce back as quickly as Dean had.

They made their way back towards the front of the house, where a row of large metal kegs were lined up against the wall. Many of them were already tapped out, but there were still two or three with beer inside. Someone was doing a keg stand on one of them, the crowd around him cheering and egging him on. He only lasted eleven seconds before coming down.

“Oh, me next!” Dean called, shoving his way through the crowd. Castiel’s stomach turned with concern. He squeezed himself to the front of the group after Dean, trying to stop him. It was clear he had already hit his limit, and Castiel was worried he’d black out if did this, if he hadn’t already.

He didn’t want to end the night in the ER’s waiting room as Dean got his stomach pumped. 

“Are you sure this is wise?” he asked as they settled in front of the keg. There were three frat boys standing around it, one to work the pump and valve and the other two to spot. They were all looking at Dean expectantly.

“Hell yeah! Here, hold these.” Dean ripped off his fedora and pulled his satchel over his head. He shoved both against Castiel’s chest and rushed towards the keg. Castiel hugged the items against him, not knowing what to say to make Dean stop.

Dean shook out his body in preparation before leaning down and wrapping his fists around the handles. The two spotters picked up his legs and brought him into a slanted handstand over the keg. The third person put the valve in Dean’s mouth. Castiel saw the moment the beer began to flow, as Dean’s throat worked and a thin dribble of froth started to drip from the corner of his lips.

The image was not doing anything for the discomfort in Castiel’s pants.

The crowd around them began to count up, shouting out the seconds that passed by as Dean guzzled beer.

“. . . seven, eight, nine . . . thirteen, fourteen . . .”

People started clapping and whooping. When Dean reached thirty seconds, someone shouted, “No way!”

At thirty-five seconds, Dean started to do inverse push ups against the keg, and the crowd started laughing. Castiel shook his head, forlorn and painfully aroused.

He got up to forty-six seconds before he kicked his feet out and turned his face away from the valve. Beer spurted out over his face before the person pumping could stop completely. The spotters lowered Dean to the floor.

Everyone held their breath as Dean stood up straight and swayed a little. But then he righted himself and threw both fists high into the air in victory. The crowd erupted into cheers. Dean opened his hands and clapped them over his head.

“I love college!” he roared, and the crowd grew louder.

Castiel blinked at him, fighting back the breathless smile forming on his lips. “You don’t go to college!”

“I still love college!”

Proudly, Dean walked back to Castiel and took back his hat and satchel. His chin was glistening with beer, and his smile was bright and shining. His eyes were impossibly clear but far away, his pupils expanded.

“You wanna try?”

Castiel gaped a little, looking from Dean to the keg. He wasn’t sure how he could follow Dean’s performance, and he would feel inadequate when he did poorly. Still, his fingers twitched towards the keg’s handles with some false sense of bravado, wanting to attempt it.

“Come on! It’s good to try new things,” Dean encouraged. Castiel gave a nervous laugh and nodded. He took off his hat and handed it to Dean. As he approached the keg, he heard Dean shout, “Everybody give it up for Cas!”

The crowd was thoroughly wrapped around his finger.

Stomach sloshing, already filled with alcohol and begging him not to do this, Castiel put his hands on the cold metal of the keg and let the spotters lift him up. The valve was shoved between his teeth, and he realized he’d made a huge mistake a fraction of a second before the beer began to flow much more quickly than he’d anticipated.

He did his best to keep up, but he felt some of it spilling out of his mouth. He realized the crowd was counting for him, too, and he thought he heard the number twelve being shouted. He couldn’t really listen, as he was starting to get lightheaded and he felt as if he was about to gag. There was foam in his nose. The beer was rushing down his throat so quickly, he barely had the chance to taste it. He couldn’t breathe, and he imagined this is what waterboarding felt like.

At twenty-three seconds, he’d had enough. He kicked his legs out and ripped his mouth away from the plastic. Beer wet his cheeks, went into his nose, and got into his eyes before it was turned off. He was lowered slowly to the ground and he felt the beer and bile rising back up his throat. He choked it down, fighting the pressure in his stomach. He would not vomit, especially not in front of all these people—and Dean. He still had his dignity.

The crowd was clapping and whistling for him, and Dean ran up and clapped him on the back. “Good job, buddy!”

Once the urge to get sick passed and he wiped his mouth with his sleeve, Castiel beamed over at him, a sense of accomplishment rushing over him. He was so wrapped up in the look of delight Dean was giving him that he didn’t notice someone else approaching.

“That was pretty impressive, Clarence.”

Meg was clad in a skin-tight white tiger-striped dress, fishnet stockings, and knee-high black boots. She wore a headband with rounded white ears. The make-up around her eyes was sparkling and black, smudged from the night’s activities.

“Oh. Hello, Meg.”

Dean had gone very still and silent beside him, his hand sliding off of Castiel’s shoulder.

“I didn’t know you were coming to this. You should have told me,” she said, leaning in a little too close so she could be heard. “We could have coordinated outfits.”

“Well, Dean actually picked out my costume,” Castiel informed her. “I’m not sure who I’m supposed to be.”

The predatory smirk remained on Meg’s face as her eyes slid over to Dean. She looked him up and down. “Sounds fun. Hey-ya, Dean.”

Dean put on a tight smile of his own. “Hey, Meg. Eat any hearts lately?”

“Night’s still young, big guy.” She winked at Castiel.

The flush in his cheeks burned hotter, and the idea of going home to relieve himself was becoming more appealing by the second.

The song changed. It sounded much the same as the last one the DJ had been playing, but the people on the dance floor began to holler with excitement.

“I _love_ this song,” Meg told him. “Hey, you wanna dance?”

Castiel’s eyes went big and round, and he had to swallow. He thought he might actually vomit, after all. He quickly looked at Dean, as if asking him what to do. Dean’s jaw was set, eyes burning into Meg, but only for a second. His expression slackened and he turned to Castiel. His brows shot up into the rim of his hat and he turned his mouth down in a frown that seemed to say, _go for it_.

It was safe to say that Castiel was extraordinarily confused by Dean’s behavior that night. He wondered if he could get whiplash while standing completely still.

He turned back to Meg, who was expecting an answer. He nodded, and she barely waited for him to finish the movement before grabbing him by the hand and leading him into the front room. Castiel cast a look over his shoulder at Dean, who shot him a grin that didn’t reach his eyes.

But Dean’s eyes were too bleary for much of anything, so Castiel told himself not to read into it.

He and Meg pushed their way towards the center of the dance floor, and she instantly pressed her back against his chest. She swayed back and forth with the rhythm, her body rubbing against his. He had to bite down on his lip because, no, this was not helping in the slightest.

The people around them were dancing much the same, the boys with their hands on the girls’ hips as they rocked from side to side. Tentatively, Castiel tried to mimic them. He looked around to make sure he was doing it correctly, and then his gaze scanned outside the gyrating dance floor, along the bamboo-covered walls.

He spotted Dean, who was staring straight at him. Charlie must have found him in Castiel’s absence, because she was standing close to his side, whispering something in his ear. When his eyes locked with Castiel’s, he quickly tore them away, as if pretending he hadn’t been looking. He turned his face to Charlie, cupped his hand around her ear, and whispered something in return.

She jumped up, mouth hanging open in a gasp that Castiel could not hear, and eyes wide with excitement. She started beating her fists playfully against Dean’s chest, and he tried to step away from her. He seemed embarrassed, but tried to play it off. Castiel wondered what he’d said to her.

Then, the two of them disappeared towards the back of the house. Castiel wanted to go after them, but he told himself to wait until the song ended.

Unfortunately, Meg wasn’t finished dancing. The song changed and she turned around to face him. She slung her arms over his shoulders and continued to move. Castiel didn’t know how to extract himself from the situation, so he let her continue.

After the third song, she said she was going to get a drink. Relieved, he left the dance floor and made his way to the back room, where the second set of stairs were. Dean was sitting on the couch, hat off and hanging from his knee as he watched the partygoers around him. He was drumming his fingers to the music on the arm of the couch. Charlie wasn’t around anymore.

Castiel sat down on the cushion next to him, and Dean seemed surprised.

“Oh. Hey,” he said, sounding perplexed.

Castiel’s brow furrowed. “What?”

“Nothing. I just—I thought you were gonna be hanging out with Meg for the rest of the night.”

Castiel didn’t understand. He’d only intended on dancing with her for one song. He thought Dean knew that.

Dean rolled his eyes. “You know. I thought you two were— _ya know_.”

Castiel did not know.

Dean sighed, knowing he’d have to spell it out. “Gonna sleep together.”

Oh.

“Why would I sleep with Meg?” Castiel asked, tilting his head to the side in confusion. “I don’t love her.”

Dean snorted sardonically. “What’s that gotta do with it?”

 _Everything_ , Castiel wanted to say, but he didn’t. Perhaps that was his Catholic upbringing breaking through, and he didn’t want Dean to judge him for it.

But it appeared too late, because Dean asked, “I mean, it’s not like you’ve been in love with everyone you’ve ever fucked, right?”

Castiel went still, a lump forming in his throat. His eyes flickered down to his lap, hoping that, if he didn’t look at him, Dean wouldn’t work out the truth. Of course, that was a fool’s hope, because Dean suddenly sat up in realization.

“Wait. You _have_ —? Are you a virgin?”

Castiel passed his hand anxiously across the back of his neck. Every nerve in his body was on edge. He’d thought about sex more that night than he had perhaps all year.

Dean whistled, taking Castiel’s lack of response for an answer. “Ah, man. You’re missin’ out.”

Castiel glared at him, suddenly angry. He defended, “I never felt like I was ‘missing out’ on anything.” He often wondered if there was something wrong with him. Everyone he knew had been sexually active for a few years, but not him. He knew it was strange, and he kept the fact of it to himself, but he never had the desire. He just didn’t think he could physically be with someone if he had no emotional connection to them.

But, when he looked at Dean, he thought maybe he had been missing out, after all.

Dean stammered a little, trying to backtrack. “No, I mean—it’s just. You guys have been going out, right? Have you even kissed her yet?”

Castiel felt ashamed again. He didn’t say that he’d never kissed anyone before.

Dean blanched. “You haven’t even kissed her? What the hell are you waiting for?”

 _For you_ , Castiel thought before he could stop himself. It was a miracle he hadn’t said it out loud.

The fact of the matter was, he just didn’t feel the same attraction towards Meg as he did for Dean. He tried to. He thought it would be best if he did. But he didn’t.

That wasn’t to say Meg wasn’t attractive. She was. Objectively, he’d thought about being with her, but he never acted on it. It just wouldn’t feel right.

He looked away from Dean, towards the room’s exit, wondering if he could make an escape. Meg walked in at that exact moment. She apparently didn’t see him, and instead joined a group of girls hovering by the far wall. One of them handed her a drink as they began to converse.

“Oh, well, buddy, there’s no way I’m gonna let my best friend stay a virgin. We’re fixing that issue _tonight_.”

Castiel’s head snapped back in his direction so quickly, he thought he’d feel some pain in the morning. He wasn’t exactly sure what Dean was offering, but the hope turning in his chest was getting ahead of itself.

Dean nodded across the room. “Go get her, tiger.”

Castiel deflated. Of course.

“I—Why?”

Why did it matter so much to Dean whether he had sex with Meg or not?

“Because!” Dean exclaimed, like it was reason enough. He considered for a moment, and then continued, “She clearly wants to.”

“She does?” His eyes flashed back towards Meg. He didn’t understand how Dean could come to the conclusion that she wanted sex.

“Duh! And you like her, right?”

Castiel didn’t know what exactly Dean was asking. Did he enjoy Meg’s company? Did he see Meg as a romantic partner? Did he want to be intimate with her?

He felt himself nodding, even though he wasn’t sure what he was agreeing to, and he didn’t even think it was true.

“Okay, then! Get at it.” He grabbed Castiel by the shoulder and nudged him off the couch. Castiel rocked a little, but didn’t budge.

Was this really happening?

He couldn’t quite interpret all these mixed messages. It felt like Dean was toying with him.

“Is that—is that what you want?”

Dean huffed. He gestured out with his palms in a hopeless, dismissive way. “I want what you want.”

Castiel doubted that.

“And you clearly want—no, _need_ —to get laid.”

Well, he was right about that, at least.

Hesitantly, he got to his feet. He fisted his hands at his side, and felt incredibly stiff and terrified. Was he really about to do this?

Maybe it would be okay. If nothing else, it would help him with the arousal that had been plaguing him for the better part of the night. Perhaps he needed this. Perhaps he needed to prove that he could do this—to himself. To Dean.

Maybe he needed to show Dean that could have sex. And that would—what? Make Dean want him? It was ridiculous. Dean didn’t want him before, when he thought Castiel was experienced. He wouldn’t want him later.

He was better off doing this to try to get over Dean.

“I _will_ push you,” Dean warned.

Mustering his courage, Castiel began to walk towards Meg and her group of friends.

What was he doing? He couldn’t do this.

He looked back around, silently begging Dean to save him, to tell him that he didn’t need to go through with this. That they could go back to Castiel’s apartment and he could prove to Dean that sex was an option firsthand.

Dean gave him a grin and a thumbs up.

Castiel didn’t know why, but it incensed him. How could Dean be so blind?

He turned back around, and charged forward before he could change his mind again.

When he reached Meg, he took her by the arm and spun her around, causing some of her drink to tip out of her cup and slosh on the floor. She looked startled before registering who he was. “Castiel, what are you—?”

He didn’t waste any more time to hear the rest of that question. He dipped in and kissed her with enough pressure that he thought she’d find adequate. He couldn’t really be sure. The only thing he knew for certain was that he could feel Dean’s eyes burning into the back of his shoulders. His gut swam and his heart sped up a little, hoping despite all reasonable doubt that Dean was somewhat jealous.

Probably not.

Needing air, he pulled away, and Meg swayed, her eyes glazed over. The girls she’d been talking to were either balking or leaning into each other to whisper behind their hands. He paid them no mind.

“What the hell was that?” Meg asked, and he couldn’t tell if she was angry with him. He suddenly felt self-conscious.

“I—A kiss. I kissed you. I thought—,” his eyes darted back and forth. Maybe Dean had misread the situation entirely. “I thought that’s what you wanted.”

A lopsided grin formed on Meg’s lips. “Uh, duh. What took you so long, Clarence?” The next thing he knew, her hand was on the back of his neck and she was pulling him in quickly. Apparently, he hadn’t been kissing her with enough pressure because she kissed him hard, her lips parting and closing against his ravishingly, and all he could do was follow her lead.

It was . . . nice—if not a little too wet. Her mouth was warm and tasted like cherry lip balm and sweet rum. It made him feel lightheaded, like he could get drunk off the alcohol on her tongue. Wait, was he still drunk? Would he be this bold if he weren’t?

After a minute, she pulled away and blinked up at him. Her irises, black against her pale skin and make-up, engulfed her dark eyes and she looked very pretty like that. “What do you say we take this upstairs?” she said, and he could just hear her over the music. It made his stomach flop again, and she was once again regarding him like he was some kind of prize. But he wanted to do this. He wanted Dean to know he could do this, and he wanted to forget that Dean was reason at all.

So, he nodded. Her smile grew gleeful, and she set her cup down on the nearest flat surface. Taking his hand in hers, she turned around and led him towards the stairs. Castiel chanced a look over his shoulder back at the couch where he’d left Dean, but it was empty. Dean was gone, probably to find that panther girl.

He shook his head, trying to tell himself it didn’t matter. He had someone else’s company, and she’d have to do.

It took them a couple of tries to find an unlocked door, but they ended up in a room with one twin bed pushed against the wall and another near the window. The closet door was open, and so were the cabinets of the dresser. Clothes were spilling out and scattered on the floor. The room smelled vaguely of pizza.

Meg locked the door before spinning back around to face him, and then she was on him again, one hand tangling in his hair and the other squeezing his arm. He put his hands hesitantly on her hips, and settled into the curves there. He figured he must have done something right because she deepened the kiss, pulling him down further into her.

He wondered if he should be rough, too. That seemed to be what she wanted. Trying out that theory, he backed her up, pushing her against the door. She moaned into his mouth, sending hot air down his throat. He felt something stir in his abdomen, making him press more into her. Squeezing her hip with one hand, he brought the other to her hair and pressed his fingers inside, raking through it and messing it like she was doing to his.

Needing air, he broke away from her lips. His breaths came out fast and he could hear his heart pounding in his ears.

Her breath was audible and hot on his cheeks. She looked up, exposing the white column of her neck, and he buried his nose into it, kissing the skin there.

“That’s it, angel,” she moaned, her body shivering against him.

She reached down to lift up his shirt, and suddenly red warning signs and klaxons went off in his brain.

He couldn’t do this. This was wrong.

He wasn’t doing this for himself, and he definitely wasn’t doing this for Meg. He found he couldn’t care less about giving her pleasure. He was doing this for Dean. Because he wanted to make Dean feel this way. He wanted to express himself physically, in a language Dean could understand—because English clearly wasn’t working.

He stepped back, ripping himself out of Meg’s hold. Something in him, low in his gut, urged him to stop being ridiculous and go back to her. But the other, more dominant part of him, knew that he would regret it if he did.

Meg gasped. “What the _hell_ , Castiel?” she yelled, already angry.

He felt bad, but he couldn’t go through with it. “I’m sorry, Meg, I—.” He what? He didn’t have an excuse except Dean’s name, and he couldn’t tell her that. “I have to go.”

“You—?”

He pushed her gently out of the way and tore the door open. He rushed back down the hall and down the stairs, and thankfully she didn’t follow him. He scanned the room wildly for Dean, but he wasn’t there. He didn’t see anyone he knew.

But he was determined, his entire being dead-set on finding Dean and kissing him for however long Dean would allow it.

He walked through the house, calling Dean’s name, but his voice was swallowed up by the music and all the faces around him were shadowed and indecipherable.

Dean wasn’t there.

He stopped in the middle of the dance floor, the bodies around him sweeping him up and jostling him, but he didn’t care.

None of them were Dean.

///

God, he was such a dumbass.

Why had he done that? Why did he drive Cas towards Meg? He knew Cas had been reluctant. He should have just left it alone. Because he'd been so wrong and so stupid. Cas being unavailable didn't hurt any less than single Cas. Hell, it might have been worse.

Because now that's all Dean was going to think about. Every time he saw Cas, every time he talked to him. He was going to be thinking about how Cas would rather be with Meg. It wasn't a matter of some nameless, faceless girl that Cas would one day choose over Dean; she had a name, she had a face, and he was with her right now.

Dean couldn't stay at the party for very long after Cas and Meg started making out in the corner. Every feeling he'd tried to hold down weighed too heavily on him the second Cas twirled her around, and he thought they might crush him.

Why the hell had he egged Cas on like that? He'd just panicked. He should have never gotten that drunk. He should have never taken Cas in that damn bathroom and tried to make a move on him. Maybe then he would have never seen how uncomfortable Cas looked in that moment, when Dean was boxing him in, the way his arms were held tightly to his sides as he pushed his back against the door like he couldn't get far enough away; the way he’d rushed from the bathroom the second he could. Maybe Dean wouldn't have tried to overcompensate for it, and Cas would still be with him.

What a fucking disaster.

He walked back to Cas' place, having enough presence of mind to text Sam to tell him he was heading home. His fingers were shaking and the text kept having to autocorrect, and he pretended it was because of the frigid, bordering on winter air.

When he made it to the Impala in the parking lot of Cas' place, he slid into the driver’s seat and just sat there for what must have been a half hour. His knuckles were white around the steering wheel and his jaw was strained enough for his teeth to hurt, and he didn't even notice the tension until he sobered up enough to drive.

Keeping his mind carefully blank, he turned the engine over and blasted the music, not even really hearing what was playing as he drove across town.

Cas and Meg were probably still going at it. Every time he blinked, his traitorous imagination conjured up images of the two of them together.

There was Cas, taking off her dress. There he was, lining her neck with kisses. There he was, picking her up and taking her to bed. There was his smile and his heavy breathing and his laughter and the sounds he made.

There was Dean's heart sinking lower and lower into his gut.

When he got to his apartment building, his car door was open before the Impala was even fully parked. It hadn't even been an hour, and he'd already been sober for too long. He needed a drink, or several. And he needed to pass out and sleep until noon at least. He didn't want to be conscious knowing Cas was screwing some chick on the other side of town.

As he entered the apartment, he ripped the fedora off his head and tossed it away, but didn't bother with the rest of his costume before heading right to the beer in the fridge. His first reflex was to gag as it went down his throat, his body remembering the quantity he'd already drank from the keg stand, but he got it down sure enough. He gripped the glass bottle in his fist and gulped down half of it before coming up for air.

His head was already dizzy. His other fist was tight at his side. His knuckles itched to hit something, to bruise and bleed. He glared at the wall like it was public enemy number one.

And then the thought hit him: _I can't do this_.

It was sad and wistful and pathetic, and he just couldn't live like this anymore. It made the simmering in his chest burn out at once, and replaced it with something cold and heavy like lead.

He had to tell Cas how he felt. And yeah, maybe it would freak Cas right out. Maybe he'd never want to talk to Dean again, but Dean had to say something. He felt like he was jumping out of his skin every time Cas was around, and he didn't want to get caught with his pants down again like he did in the bathroom. It was only a matter of time until he slipped up, and then there'd be no chance of salvaging their friendship.

Maybe Cas would let him down easy. Maybe he'd be cool about it. Maybe they could put all this behind them, and Cas could tell him point blank that there wasn't a chance in hell for them. Maybe he just needed to hear the words. Maybe, then, he could move on.

Or maybe, just maybe, Cas would say it back.

_Yeah, right._

That's it. He had to do it. He resolved to tell Cas the next time he saw him. It'd be easy. They were just words, right?

_Hey, buddy. Quick thing—I kinda turn into a stupid, lovesick puppy around you, but it's no big deal. Wanna grab a burger?_

That couldn't be too hard.

Dean's stomach sloshed. The beer threatened to come back up again, so he forced it down with another swig. Maybe whiskey would get the job done quicker.

There was a knock at the door, and Dean started. "Shit," he hissed when he realized what it was, and ran his hand down his face. He needed to go to sleep.

Another knock sounded, making Dean grunt.

"What's the matter, Sammy, you lose your key?" he barked on his way towards the door; but, when he opened it, the guy standing in the hall was decidedly not his brother.

"Cas?"

No. No, this was too soon. This wasn't supposed to be happening. Dean knew he said he'd tell Cas he liked him the next time he saw him, but that wasn't supposed to be two seconds after he made the decision. He was supposed to have more time to talk himself out of it.

Cas was standing there with a box of pizza in his hands, and a brown paper bag resting on top of that. His hair was messed up and his shirt was unkempt, and Dean pointedly didn't look at any of that.

He swallowed, his hand tightening around the doorknob. He was aware that his eyes were bulging out of his head and his mouth was hanging open. He just couldn't stop.

"I thought . . ." His mind sputtered and refused to start up again. "Meg?" he ended up saying, unintelligibly, but Cas must have understood his meaning. And that was just hilarious because Dean hadn't even understood what he was asking.

 _How'd it go?_ No. He sure as hell didn't want to hear about that.

 _Where is she?_ He didn't really care about that, either, as long as she wasn't there.

 _Why are you here instead of having sex?_ Yeah, that sounded like a winner.

And it was the one Cas went with, beyond all possible reasoning.

"I couldn't . . ." He thinned his lips into a hard line, his eyes flickering down to the pizza box. He looked like he was trying to figure out how to word something, and he whispered, "It’s not the right time."

Dean felt his entire body uncoil and relax. He let his hand slip from the doorknob. "Oh." He felt himself breathe out, the corner of his mouth twitching upward before he could catch himself. "That's, uh—that's okay, man. I shouldn't'a pressured you if you weren't ready."

Because that's all it was. Cas wasn't ready. It wasn't because of anything else. It definitely wasn't because he had any feelings for Dean, which was currently the spark of hope Dean was trying to stamp out.

There was a heavy pause between them, Cas standing in the stairwell, Dean in the doorway. The words were on the tip of his tongue. _I want to be with you_. He didn't say them. He was too chicken shit.

"I brought pizza. And mozzarella sticks. You mentioned they were good 'drunk food,'" Cas then said, and Dean felt his expression soften. "I thought we might eat them together?"

Dean realized that it was a question. He'd been too lost in emotion to process it fully, but he nodded quickly when he did. "Yeah, yeah, man. Definitely." He took a step back to let Cas through the door.

Cas took the food over to the couch. "Would you like to watch a movie?"

Dean didn't understand it. Cas could be having sex right now. But instead, he wanted to sit on Dean's couch and watch a movie. It made no sense. And Dean had never been happier to be confused.

He sat down on the cushion next to Cas and picked his laptop up from the coffee table. "Yeah. I'll find something." His voice sounded rougher than he wanted it to. He cleared his throat. "You want a beer?"

"I think I've had enough beer tonight, thank you."

"Yeah, I hear you, dude."

There was a rustling sound and Cas opened up the brown bag and pulled out the take out container filled with the mozzarella sticks. Dean scrolled through his computer looking for a movie. Maybe he'd introduce Cas to _Indiana Jones_ , after all.

Out of nowhere, the nagging sensation overtook him, urging him again to tell Cas how he felt. He didn't. He didn't want to scare Cas off. He didn't want Cas to realize he'd made a mistake and go back to Meg.

But Dean did, before he could stop himself, glance up at Cas. Cas met his eyes and, for no reason at all, smiled. It was a gentle, lingering thing. Dean couldn't help but to return it.

So, maybe Cas would just be his friend. Maybe all they'd ever do is drink beer and watch movies and eat pizza. Maybe that'd just have to be okay.

As long as Cas was around at all, Dean thought he could be happy with that.


	7. Chapter 7

Fall semester was close to running its course, the struggle to the finish line fueled by coffee and catnaps stolen on the couch in between classes. The promise of sleepy, snow-blanketed mornings and afternoons wrapped up in a quilt while marathoning movies on the Winchesters' sofa was the prize waiting for Castiel at the end of the track. He could almost smell the pine needles of Christmas trees and taste the sweetness of spiked eggnog. It was so clearly in reach. He couldn't wait to shut his brain off from circling, dull thoughts of business theory for an entire month.

But, in the meantime, he was staring at the blinking cursor of the Word document open on his laptop. He'd managed to write three and a half pages on McGregor’s theory for his term paper, and he still had one-thousand three-hundred and seventeen words to go. How he'd manage to pull over a thousand words on a subject he'd exhausted half a page ago out of his ass, he had no idea. One thing was for certain: the use of contractions and active voice were out, the rules of grammar be damned.

His eyes flickered to the clock on the upper righthand side of his screen. 3:39 AM. He had three hours and twenty-one minutes before the assignment was due; and he was already officially four hours and thirty-nine minutes into his third all-nighter of the week.

He blinked at the screen as he reached for the paper coffee cup at his elbow. It was a lot lighter than he remembered it being, and when he sipped it he discovered it was stone cold. He frowned.

Maybe he should just give up.

"You need another one? I could make a run."

Castiel brought his gaze towards the couch, where Dean was sprawled out on his back, boots crossed at the ankles and kicked up over the armrest, headphones in and music playing low enough to not disturb Castiel as he worked. He’d thought Dean had fallen asleep, but apparently not. And, by some sixth sense, Dean had been able to guess the exact moment Castiel required a refill. He'd already run out to the coffee shop on campus that stayed open late during finals three times; but, much to Castiel's dismay, he knew even that would be closed by now.

Even if it weren't, he was beginning to feel like he was taking advantage of Dean's desire to care for everyone around him. He knew watching him write a paper couldn't be very much fun.

"No need. It's impossible," Castiel said in a sudden fit of apathy. He sat back in his chair at the breakfast table and scrubbed his hands down his stinging eyes. He yawned, "I'm failing college. I’ve just decided. I'll just tell Michael I'll have to work in the mailroom once I graduate."

He heard Dean shift and grunt as he picked himself off the couch. "Home brewed, it is." He ripped his headphones off by the wire and set his phone down on the coffee table before padding towards the shadowy kitchen. He flipped on a light, making Castiel wince; and Castiel only then noticed that it had gotten dark around them, the only light being the glow from his computer screen. No wonder his eyes ached, but unfortunately the gloom was no explanation for the kink in his neck.

Dean didn't have to rummage around the cabinets. He knew precisely where the k-cups were located. He knew where the mugs were. He knew how to work the machine. Soon, the burning sweet smell of boiling coffee filled the air.

Castiel watched him, too exhausted to hide the faint smile that curved his lips. This late at night, Dean's posture was especially bad, and his movements lethargic. His hair was slightly askew, the gel in it having long since lost its hold. His eyes were tired and half-mast. He didn't hold himself in his usual guarded manner. He didn't even notice he was being watched. Every line of him was soft and comforting.

Castiel wanted to fall asleep to that, to wake up to it. Always.

He thought he'd never tire of it.

"Dean," he said, voice quiet. Dean half-glanced over at him.

“Hah?”

"As much as I appreciate it, your being here isn’t necessary."

Dean groaned and waved around the spoon that he was currently using to shovel sugar into a mug, just as Castiel liked it. "Yeah, yeah, I know. I'm a helicopter parent."

Castiel frowned. "I was going to say you're too generous."

Dean snorted, apparently not believing it. "Nah, it's cool," he said modestly. "I got my tunes. What was I gonna do anyway?"

"Well. You could be sleeping."

The coffee was done trickling into the mug, and he pulled it out from the tray. "I'll sleep when I'm dead." He walked over and set the coffee, curls of steam drifting up from the mug, in front of Castiel. It smelled like lifeblood.

Castiel noticed that Dean was eyeing him closely. "Looks like you might beat me to the punch, though. When’s the last time you slept?"

Castiel grunted instead of answering and picked the mug up by the handle. It burned his tongue, but he was too tired to react.

"Seriously, dude. I feel like I should hook you up to an IV."

"As long as it’s caffeinated."

“Cas.” Dean’s voice was stern now. “C’mon, man. You need a break.”

If only that were possible. Castiel turned back to his screen and shook out, hoping it would provide him with more energy and productive brainpower. It only worked for about a second. “I can’t,” he said. “This is due at seven.”

In the corner of his eye, he saw Dean slump. “I doubt they’ll flunk you if you turn it in a couple minutes late.”

“Clearly, you’ve never been subject to Blackboard’s strict and unyielding deadlines.”

Dean blinked in incomprehension. “I have no idea what that is.”

Castiel felt a clear and distinct rush at finally making a reference that Dean didn’t understand, as opposed to the other way around; but the high from it didn’t last long.

He hovered his fingers over the keyboard, praying they would start moving and coherent thoughts would appear on screen. He sighed when they didn’t. Maybe Dean was right.

“That bad, huh?”

Castiel rubbed at his eye with his index finger. “I don’t even think my last two paragraphs make any sense.”

“Well, here, let me take a crack at it.” Before Castiel could protest, or even fully process Dean’s words, Dean was leaning over him, one palm resting on the table next to the laptop for balance and the other dead center between Castiel’s shoulders. He was so close that Castiel could feel the heat coming off his skin, and could smell sweat mixed with engine oil and leather.

He swallowed, and was suddenly extremely alert and completely aware of the adrenaline quickening his pulse. It was difficult to breathe.

The two of them standing so close into each other’s personal space was hardly a rarity, but this seemed different somehow—in the early hours of the quiet morning—especially when Dean’s thumb and forefinger began pressing idle circles into the knots at the base of Castiel’s neck. It elicited a pleasure so close to pain, and Castiel didn’t even think Dean knew he was doing it. He tried not to groan contentedly, fearing it would alert Dean to the action, because he really wanted him to keep it up.

Dean’s eyes flickered back and forth as he read, muttering under his breath. His face was pinched in concentration. After a few minutes, he leaned back again, stood up straight, and moved his hand to rest on the curve of Castiel’s shoulder. “Yeah, I got nothin’. You might as well be talking in Urdu.”

Castiel nodded, feeling much the same. “Thank you for trying.”

Dean lifted his hand and brought it back down to pat his shoulder. “Just another reason you need to step away for a while, man. Let’s go for a drive or something!”

“Dean . . .”

“Half an hour,” Dean bargained. “Not even. Twenty minutes—tops! Fresh air’ll do you good. You can come back with a clear head.”

All logic told Castiel to refuse, but he felt something like a magnetic pull towards the door. It was irresponsible, but it was what he wanted.

“Let me distract you,” Dean offered, making all thoughts of schoolwork and responsibility halt abruptly. Instead, he thought of all the ways he would very much like Dean to distract him.

Unfortunately, Dean only wanted to drive. But Castiel relented, figuring it was better than nothing.

The night air was frigid as they walked to the car, and Castiel put his hands in his coat pocket to guard them from getting chapped. He thought the shock of it was better than any cup of coffee he’d had so far, and he was probably more awake than he had been in hours, but still he obediently followed Dean to the Impala and slid into the passenger side.

Dean drove around aimlessly, the radio playing on low and the window cracked to let the cold air in. Castiel sat up straight and tried to keep himself awake, even though his eyes kept sliding shut. He knew that if he fell asleep he’d be too groggy to finish his essay.

Instead, he listened to Dean talk about everything, and about nothing. About the car he was currently working on at the garage. About the patron at Harvelle’s who tried to pay him with a Sacagawea coin. About how Sam’s studying for finals was going. About how awful the ending of _Game of Thrones_ had been. About how cold it had been recently. About what he ate for lunch that day. He was animated, speaking with his hands, and keeping the conversation going without any expectation of contribution on Castiel’s part.

At times, there were lulls of silence, and Castiel relished in the comfort of them.

Castiel’s body was a weight, and he found himself slumping into the old leather of the bench seat. The night sat heavily around them, and it felt like it could start snowing at any given moment, despite the forecast. He watched Dean until his eyes were dry and forced him to blink. He wasn’t really listening to what Dean was saying anymore, but instead watched the streetlights glow off his soft lips as they drove in and out of their pools of light.

They were the only ones on the road. The car slowed to a stop at a red light, allowing nothing but the wind to pass by. He thought Dean was complaining about buying Sam’s textbooks for hundreds of dollars only to sell them back to the bookstore at the end of the semester for a fraction of the price when he said, “Dean.”

Dean stopped abruptly and turned towards him. The red light over them tinted his skin and cast shadows on his cheeks and nose.

“Thank you,” Castiel said. He didn’t quite know why he’d said it, just that it was important to say.

Dean looked surprised, then confused, and then bashful. “For what?”

 _For what?_ That was a loaded question. The answer was vast and contained an entire world that Castiel had not lived in before he met Dean. He didn’t know how to articulate it. He said, “For speaking to me in the bar on my birthday.”

The light above them turned green, the lighter color revealing more of Dean’s shy expression. He didn’t hit the gas.

His throat working, he said, “Yeah, well. Glad I did.”

“Why did you?”

Dean shrugged, letting his eyes drop down between them. “I dunno.” He pushed a smile, forced a weak chuckle. “Guess I was angling for a big tip.”

That was a lie. “No,” Castiel told him. “You weren’t.”

Dean’s eyes swept back up to his.

The light turned red.

The light turned green again.

Something in Dean’s gaze shifted, and—slowly—he reached towards Castiel. His fingers brushed Castiel’s cheek, thumb grazing the skin right under his eye. Castiel felt his breath trip and skin buzz where it connected to Dean. He let his eyes fall closed and leaned just slightly into the warmth of his touch.

Then, Dean pulled back. Castiel opened his eyes suddenly, and found Dean had a single black eyelash pinched between his thumb and finger. There was a smirk on his face. “Make a wish,” he said jokingly.

And Castiel got the urge to slap his hand to the side, surge forward, and kiss him; his only wish was that Dean would kiss him back. He saw it unfold in his mind, imagining it so clearly that he could almost feel Dean’s lips on his and his hands cradling his face. As he considered it, he didn’t notice a car had pulled up behind them until it honked.

Dean seemed to snap out of his own reverie and quickly brought his eyes back to the road. The car began rolling again, its engine revving in short bursts. Castiel faced front.

In the long run, Dean’s idea to take a break worked. Castiel was able to finish his essay, but he was too indifferent to proofread it before turning it in. He crawled into bed as the sun peeked its first pink rays over the horizon. A light dusting of snow was collecting on the windowsills and the world below, after all. Dean crawled in next to him. Castiel was too weary to think about the significance of that for very long, and too rundown to stress after having Dean lying beside him in bed.

As he drifted off, his mind tricked him into believing it wasn’t a significant occurrence, anyway. That they had done this countless times. It’s where Dean belonged.

///

Christmas Eve found Castiel standing with Sam in the dim-lit hallway of the Winchesters' apartment. They were waiting outside Dean's bedroom, with Dean inside, the door locked behind him for the past—Castiel checked his phone for the eighth time—twenty-two minutes.

Castiel pulled at the tie around his neck. It was much too tight, and he was already uncomfortable as it were. Dean was taking forever, and they only had fifteen minutes to drive across town if they wanted to make the annual Novak Charity Gala on time. And, Castiel made no mistake, he was supposed to be there on time. The guests could arrive fashionably late if they deemed, but Michael was stringent about his siblings. Castiel was certain he'd already missed the pre-party family lecture about being on their best behavior and remaining a fine example of leadership in the community. It was the same speech every year, without variation, and he could probably recite it by now. But that didn't mean he could be late.

And, as his guest, Dean was held to the same standards, which Castiel should have known would be a disaster.

But he wanted Dean to be his guest. He was well aware that Michael would be angry at first, as he told Castiel to stay away from the Winchesters months ago, but he was confident his brother's opinion would change when he got to know Dean. Dean would prove himself. Probably.

Although, if they were late, that wouldn't put them off to a very good start.

Castiel checked his phone again. It was starting to feel very warm in the hallway, and he tensed his hands to keep the antsy tremble out of them.

Michael had to like Dean. Castiel wanted to remain Dean's friend, but he knew sneaking around behind his family's back would fail eventually. Besides, he didn't want to do it. He shouldn't have to.

Sam must have seen Castiel's discomfort, because he leaned his shoulder off the opposite wall and pounded the side of his fist on Dean's door. "Dean? You alright in there?"

"Gimme a minute!" Dean's voice shot back, slightly muffled by the door. There was a faint grunting noise, and Castiel wondered what was taking so long. Dean's only task had been to put on a tuxedo. It didn't require a PhD. Castiel should know; he'd bought a new tuxedo for the occasion and put it on before going to the Winchesters' to pick Dean up. It hadn't taken him nearly this long.

"Dean, we're going to be late."

"Just hang on!" Dean sounded angry now, his voice going deep. Castiel tilted his head up and rolled his eyes with such force, the motion caused him to turn around completely and walk a few steps away.

"I feel like I'm going to fucking junior prom in this thing!"

Sam snorted a laugh, and then pulled a guilty face when Castiel glared at him. "He'll just be another sec," he said, like he could promise such things while dressed in sweatpants and a purple t-shirt with a graphic of some ambiguous breed of dog depicted on the front.

“So,” Sam said conversationally, obviously trying to distract Castiel from having an aneurysm, “you doing anything for tomorrow?”

Castiel sighed, his eyes flickering to the bedroom door one last time, before withering and turning to Sam. “Each year, my siblings and I go to mass, but after that, nothing.”

Sam seemed surprised at that. “Really? No Christmas ham or anything?”

Castiel was aware that Christmas was supposed to be a family holiday—or, it was in most Christian families. It was not meant to be spent entertaining the high society of Kansas. But it was the only thing he ever knew, and he’d accepted it a long time ago.

But he had no interest in talking about it. He redirected the topic quickly, “What about you and Dean? Will your father be coming home?”

Sam’s shoulders hunched, and he looked down at the carpet. “No, he had to pick up another route,” he said, trying to sound cheerful, even though Castiel heard the anger behind it. “Yeah, we’ll probably just head over to Bobby’s, get some Boston Market.” He laughed, “Argue about whether we should watch Frosty or Rudolph.”

“Well,” Castiel said, doing his best to keep down the longing he felt from the images Sam had conjured in his imagination, “that doesn’t sound so bad.”

There was a quiet moment, and then Sam gestured forward with his palm upturned and said, “Hey, if you’re not doing anything tomorrow, you should come by.”

That wistful feeling arrested him suddenly. “Really?”

“Yeah, for sure! Just, uh—we don’t do gifts, okay? So don’t worry about bringing anything. Seriously.”

Castiel didn’t mention the box that had come in the mail earlier that week. He wondered now if he should return what was inside.

Still, something warm spread its way from his chest all the way to the tips of his fingers. It wasn’t uncomfortable this time. He wondered what it would be like to have a real, normal Christmas.

Dean’s voice came through again as he called, “Okay, I’m coming out! Don’t laugh!”

Sam took a few steps back from the door, and some of Castiel’s annoyance returned as he remembered that he still had his own holiday obligations to worry about. “Finally.”

Hesitantly, the door creaked open just a crack, and then paused.

Sam grunted. “Don’t leave us in suspense here, Dean.”

There was a loud breath from inside the room, as if Dean was bracing himself, and then the door was ripped open before he changed his mind. And there he stood, in a white pressed shirt and a bowtie around his neck. The black of the suit made his skin look a little whiter, causing his freckles to stand out. His shoes were polished, and obviously had never been worn. He appeared stiff and awkward, and despite that he was beautiful.

Castiel hadn’t quite been prepared for it. He’d only ever seen Dean in casual wear. He’d never experienced this. He looked leaner, the fabric framing his body closer than a flannel shirt; the trousers were slimmer than his jeans, and made his legs seem longer, the bow of his knees notwithstanding. Castiel had to tense his entire body to keep from gasping.

Dean’s eyes flittered from Sam’s to his. “Well?”

It was a miracle, but Castiel somehow managed to rip his eyes off of Dean long enough to see Sam shrug and give an exaggerated frown. “Not as bad as I thought it’d be.”

“Shut up,” Dean groaned. He shuffled a little and pulled at the ends of his sleeves. He had no reason to feel self-conscious. Then, his gaze lifted up to Castiel’s. He hunched in on himself. “Cas?” There was something in his voice, something afraid but hopeful.

Castiel didn’t trust himself to speak. He barely trusted himself to breathe.

“It’s,” he said, knowing he couldn’t say what he really thought, “adequate.”

Dean’s brows shot up. “Oh, adequate? Well, in that case . . .”

“Let’s go,” Castiel said quickly.

Dean breathed out heavily and turned to Sam. “Alright. Don’t stay up too late, Sammy, or else Santa won’t show up to bring you presents.” He reached up and teasingly tapped Sam on the cheek.

Sam swatted his hand away. “Get off! Jerk.”

“Bitch.”

As Castiel turned, he heard Dean’s mischievous laughter behind him, and Dean followed in his footsteps. Before they left the apartment, Sam called, “Have fun, you guys!”

They jostled down the steps of the apartment building, the soles of their shoes squeaking against the cracked tiles, and out into the crisp winter air. Castiel immediately made for his truck.

“You _sure_ you don’t want me to drive?” Dean asked for the dozenth time.

They didn’t have time for this. Castiel unlocked his car. “I know where I’m going. You don’t. We can’t afford you getting lost.”

“You could just give me directions.”

Castiel jerked the door open and shot him a glare. “Get in, Dean.”

Dean tensed for a second, and then appeared to give up. He slouched to the passenger side door. “Fine, whatever.”

As soon as they were settled, Castiel backed out of the parking space and started towards the road, not bothering to let the truck’s engine warm up first. If he did, they could be there for a while, so it was a risk he had to take.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dean pulling on the seatbelt over his chest until it locked up on him. He yanked it to no avail and made a face.

“What are you doing?”

“It’s gonna get wrinkled.” He grunted, and let the seatbelt snap back against him. “God, look at me. Wearing a tux, on my way to some rich fundraiser that the _Novaks_ are hosting. I dunno, Cas, if you’d told me all this a couple months ago, I wouldda called you crazy.”

Castiel gave him a side-eye, but didn’t respond. He slowed the truck to a full stop at an intersection.

“Jeez, Cas, if you keep driving like a grandma, we’re never gonna get there!”

“I’m going the speed limit.”

“ _I’m going the speed limit_ ,” Dean mocked, lowering his voice into a comically deep rasp.

“I don’t sound like that. And you could have just declined my invitation if you didn’t want to come.”

Dean slid up the seat a little into a less hunched position. “Come on, man, I didn’t say that! I’m just saying it’s weird, is all.”

Castiel didn’t understand how it was weird, but he let it slide.

Then, his voice a little squeaker in attempt to be casual, Dean asked, “Why did you invite me, anyway? Shouldn’t you have invited like—Meg, for example.”

Meg. Apart from a couple texts every few of days and their fourth dinner date, Castiel hadn’t spoken to Meg all break. “Why?”

“Uh, how about because she’s your girlfriend, for starters?”

Castiel lifted a brow in Dean’s direction. This was the first he was hearing of that. “Is she?” Dean just stared at him, expecting an answer. Castiel wasn’t sure how to word his response. He hadn’t invited Meg because he wasn’t worried about his family liking her, mainly because he already knew she’d fit right in with them, but also because it simply wasn’t a concern. Dean was a different story.

And, beyond that, Castiel just wished to be close to him as often as he could.

“I want you to meet my brothers and sister,” he landed on. For good measure, he said, “And, please, don’t mock any of _them_. I want them to have a good first impression of you.” There was a good chance this was going to end in tragedy.

Dean had pulled down the visor to check out his teeth in the vanity mirror. He turned his head from side to side, inspecting, and then sucked on them. He flipped the visor closed with a dull thud. “Why, who cares?”

The last thing Castiel wanted to tell him was that the future of their friendship was, more or less, dependent on Michael liking him. He said instead, “I do.”

Dean appeared to accept that. The gravity of it even seemed as if it set in on him. Castiel felt his eyes searching his profile, and he made certain to keep staring at the road. “Okay, I’ll be on my best behavior, then.”

“Thank you.”

They were driving along the lake now, small chunks of ice visible as they floated on the surface of the water. It wasn’t yet cold enough for the entire lake to freeze over.

“Yeah, no worries. Wouldn’t want you to stop inviting me to things, I guess.”

Castiel didn’t want that, either.

Speaking of invitations, Castiel thought Dean should be aware: “Sam invited me to Bobby’s tomorrow.” He doubted Dean would have any objections, but it was best to make sure.

“Oh, yeah? Cool. You should come, if you want. But, just so you know, we don’t—.”

“Do gifts. I know. Sam told me.”

Dean snapped his fingers and pointed. “Exactly.” Then, he looked out the window, his smile full of memory as he mused, “God, last time we exchanged Christmas gifts was the time Sammy gave me my necklace. And it wasn’t even supposed to be for me. It was supposed to go to Dad. But—you know. He was working.”

Like Sam, Dean attempted to play it off like it was no big deal. Unlike Sam, Dean sounded more depressed than angry. “You’d rather he were here.”

“Well, yeah, duh,” Dean answered, shrugging to brush the conversation aside. “But he’s doing a job, and he gets time and a half on holidays. No biggie. And, hey, it worked out. I get to spend Christmas Eve seeing how the other half lives. And you get that tomorrow. Fair and square.”

Castiel nodded, pushing a small smile. If Dean didn’t want to talk about his father, Castiel wouldn’t force him to. “Fair and square,” he repeated.

A few minutes later, they were pulling up to the gates outside the Novak residence. They were open wide, leading to the circular driveway up the hill. There was already a line of cars, and it made Castiel tense. They were late. There was nothing he could do about it now. He pulled the truck onto the line of cars and waited his turn to get to the front.

Meanwhile, Dean was leaning forward in his seat, head ducking and swiveling as he looked at the house through the windshield. The lights were all on inside, a yellow glow illuminating the rose window from within. Silver string lights were twinkling in perfect alignment with each gabled roof, and two giant wreaths with red bows hung on the two outer sections.

Dean whistled. “Damn. What is this place, some kind of reception hall?”

Castiel felt a little awkward. He thought Dean knew where they were going. “No. It’s the house I grew up in.”

Dean’s neck whipped around to look at him, his eyes wide and astounded. “That’s your _house_?”

Castiel inched the car up as the line moved. He had to rev the engine harshly and then brake hard in order for the truck to lunge and sputter up the hill. “It’s my family’s house.”

Sitting heavily back in his chair, Dean blinked wildly at the house. “Damn.” They didn’t say anything else until they reached the front of the line outside the entrance to the house, where a few valets in red vests were waiting to park the cars.

Castiel recognized a few of them from years past as he and Dean hopped out of the truck. The one who approached had only been there the previous year, after he’d gotten his driver’s license.

“Hi, Castiel. Nice to see you again,” he said.

“Hello, Alfie,” Castiel greeted as he was given a ticket stub to reclaim his car at the end of the night. “You as well.”

After Alfie jumped into the truck and drove off back down the hill, another car pulled up, and Castiel walked to Dean’s side. He was on the front steps, staring up at the house in wonderment.

“Ready?” Castiel asked him. Dean looked down, the Christmas lights reflecting off his eyes. Something panicked and unsure passed across his face, but then he steeled himself.

“Yeah.” His eyes flashed down to a point near Castiel’s chest. “But you’re not.”

Castiel brought his brows together, perplexed. “What—?” Before he could finish, Dean was reaching towards him with both hands and tugging at the knot of his tie. Castiel felt it tighten around his neck. He’d almost forgotten that he’d loosened it.

“Thank you,” Castiel managed to say, feeling the soft brush of Dean’s knuckles on his skin as Dean made him more presentable. He allowed himself to stare while Dean was otherwise occupied.

When he was finished, Dean let his hands drop, and stepped back with a grin to admire his handiwork. “There. _Now_ who’s making a good impression?”

Castiel smiled. Perhaps this wouldn’t be so disastrous after all.

"Shall we?" Dean asked, feigning a drawl, upscale English accent. He extended his elbow outwards, and Castiel was fairly certain it was a joke, but he wanted nothing more than to hook his arm around Dean's. He knew he shouldn't, just in case one of his siblings saw. It wasn't worth the risk.

"Let's go," he said, and started up the wrap-around steps towards the door. It took Dean a few moments to catch up to him in a jog.

The entrance opened up to a large marble foyer, an extravagant crystal chandelier hanging high on the forty-foot ceiling. Further into the room, a wall with a two-way fireplace separated the foyer from the parlor, which was laid out with a white sheepskin rug on the hardwood floors, a pristine ivory leather couch, and glass coffee and end tables with matching crystal lamps atop each. A curved staircase sat to the right of the room, leading up to the landing that overlooked the parlor. The back wall was made completely of glass, allowing for a view of the lake. More rooms rested to the side, leading to sitting and dining areas and the kitchen, but the bulk of the people gathered inside stuck to the main parlor.

The house smelled warm with ginger scented candles and pine from the tall Christmas tree towering in the corner of the room. Silver and gold baubles and ribbons decked the boughs, making it picturesque and beautiful, and cold. Wreaths were hung on every wall. A string quartet was playing instrumental holiday music in the corner of the room.

Castiel squinted at the sea of local politicians, wealthy businessmen and women, and the other members of Lawrence's upper echelon in their evening attire and expensive jewels. There were newspaper editors and their reporters present to document the event. He spotted a few familiar faces from the office, too, such as Naomi and Zachariah. Wait staff in black suits threaded through the crowd, offering silver platters of hors d'oeuvres and champagne. A murmur of talk and laughter rose up above the partygoers.

"Oh, you gotta be kidding me," Castiel heard Dean mutter under his breath as his eyes scanned the room in a mixture of amazement and diffidence. He brought his gaze back to Castiel, and then lowered it in a way that Castiel didn't know how to interpret but made him feel suddenly contrite.

He turned away, trying not to believe that Dean regretted attending, and accidentally made eye contact with Michael across the room. Michael was speaking with a woman who, if Castiel remembered properly, was on the board of LMH, and it appeared to be a serious discussion. Relieved, Castiel thought they must be talking about the illegally distributed prescription drugs. Michael, however, was still able to shoot Castiel a very dark look that made him feel like he was a particularly stubborn piece of scum on the bottom of his brother's shoe. Michael then turned back to the woman and smiled, placed his hand on her shoulder, and said something Castiel couldn't hear. They parted, and Michael refocused his attention in Castiel's direction. He expected Castiel to approach him.

Castiel told himself to breathe normally, but it was suddenly very difficult to capture any oxygen among the woodsy scented air. He looked back to Dean and touched his elbow fleetingly to get his attention. It was either now or never.

"Let me introduce you to my brother," he said, a sickening nausea twisting in his gut as he did. Maybe this was a mistake.

Dean's gaze flitted over Castiel's shoulder briefly, and he nodded. "Yeah, sure," he said, his voice a little too casual.

They walked across the foyer together, Dean plucking two champagne flutes from a passing waitress’ tray as they went. He handed one to Castiel, and Castiel was grateful. He'd need it, he was certain, and told himself not to down it in one go.

"Castiel," Michael said evenly when they got close enough. "Thank you for joining us."

Castiel thinned his lips, scolded. He knew he couldn't tell the truth as to why they were late. Putting the blame on Dean would only give Michael a reason to start out on the wrong foot. "I apologize. I hadn't—."

 _Accounted for traffic._ That's what he was going to say.

_Accounted for traffic._

However, Dean leaned in and interrupted, "That was my bad. Not used to tying a bowtie." He stuck out his hand. "I'm Dean."

Castiel was gripping his drink so tightly, he thought he might snap the stem.

“Dean,” Michael repeated, subtle hints of surprise and irritation in his tone. He pointedly didn’t look at Castiel, nor did he shake Dean’s hand. “You’re Dean Winchester.”

It hadn’t been a question, and yet Dean still answered. “Uh—yeah.” He sounded thrown off guard that Michael should know his name. He let his arm fall back to his side. The tips of his ears turned a light shade of pink and his eyes flickered sideways to Castiel. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, and Castiel caught the motion. “You know about me?”

“Yes, my brother has told me all about you.”

Dean gave a forced laugh and leaned in, joking, “Don’t believe a word he says.”

At last, Michael eyed Castiel and promised, “I’ll take that under advisement.”

Castiel stiffened. He wondered if there was an escape route he could formulate to extract Dean from that situation at once. It was just his luck that Michael was the only person on the planet Dean couldn’t charm.

However, it was already too late, because Michael was speaking again. “Castiel tells me you’re an auto technician.”

“Oh, well.” Dean shuffled a little in his shoes, looking modest. “I mean, I’m a mechanic, sure.”

Michael raised both brows, turning his head a little to the side in question. “So, you have no formal training on the subject? Such as a trade school?”

Castiel weighed the pros and cons of both a negative and positive answer. He was certain Michael would turn his nose up at either one. He looked around for someone who could somehow save them from this discussion.

“No way,” Dean answered with a scoff. “I mean—not knocking it or anything. But I didn’t need _school_ for that. That’d just be money down the drain.”

Michael’s eyes scanned him up and down in the way a god might look at bacteria. “But I’m told you have a brother who attends school. Pre-law, is it?”

Dean’s eyes lit up with pride. “Yeah, that’s right!”

“Well, it appears _he_ is on his way to a formidable career. That sounds like money well spent to me, wouldn’t you agree?”

At once, Dean’s expression dropped. A muscle in his jaw jumped as he tensed it, and it was very apparent that he was trying his very best to hold his tongue. Castiel appreciated it, mostly because it gave him the strength to bite back his own objections.

“Yup. That’s Sammy,” Dean answered in a snipped tone, nostrils flared and mouth twisting to show his teeth as he spoke.

This had been a terrible mistake. Castiel knew, deep down, no matter how he prayed, that Michael would only look down on Dean; just as he knew Dean had a vehement dislike for his family. The two were like oil and water.

“So, a mechanic, then,” Michael said, as if to clarify, just in case Dean’s answer changed in the span of the last minute.

Dean dipped his head in affirmation. “Yeah. That’s how me and Cas met, actually. I fixed his truck,” he said, pulling Castiel back into the conversation, and Castiel straightened his spine instinctually as the attention shifted back to him. “Or, well, I guess we met at the bar first.”

“A bar?” Michael echoed with reprove. “Underage drinking?”

Castiel swallowed and looked down at the champagne flute in his hand, wondering if there was a way to hide it without making it seem obvious. He knew Michael wouldn’t object to one glass within the confines of their family residence, but actually going to a bar with a fake ID was another matter entirely. That was breaking that law. That wasn’t leading by example. That was the beginning of a short, tumbling descent into iniquity.

Dean must have caught onto that because he stumbled to correct himself, voice upping in pitch, “What? No! What? Did I say _bar_? No, that—that definitely wasn’t him. That wasn’t you, right, Cas?”

Cas gave him large, baleful eyes. The damage was already done.

“Yeah, it totally wasn’t. Cas here’s never been to a bar in his life, am I right, buddy?” He slapped Castiel on the back, making some of the champagne slosh in the glass. Castiel averted his eyes to it, watching the air bubbles rise and burst to the top of the amber liquid. The transparent legs of it were sliding back downward from the sides of the crystal to the pool.

Dean cleared his throat awkwardly. A waiter passed by with a tray of mini quiches and Dean quickly took one and plopped it in his mouth to shut himself up. By the time he swallowed, Michael was still silently looking upon him, an air of phony patience about him. Castiel was certain he was trying to figure out a way to make Dean leave without causing a scene.

“So, uh,” Dean said, fumbling as he tried to change the topic. “You two kinda look alike, anyone ever tell you that?” They had, in fact. Their other biological siblings resembled each other to a varying degree, while Michael and Castiel had been the only ones born with dark hair and light eyes. They took after their mother.

“It’s kinda hard to tell on the news. But, in person, you really do,” Dean went on, grasping at straws.

“I wasn’t aware you followed us in the news, Mr. Winchester,” Michael said, and the remark was two-fold. Firstly, it was a subtle jab commenting on Dean’s knowledge of current events, which only served to further Castiel’s notion that Michael was too quick to judge Dean. Dean was very well informed, perhaps more than Castiel was. Secondly, it was Michael’s way of asking if Dean was or ever had been one of the protestors who spoke out against Evangelist. The answer, of course, was yes, but Michael had probably already inferred that.

Dean lifted his shoulder. “Yeah, here and there, I guess. Heard you were building a new park.”

Castiel had never felt this overwrought in his entire life. He considered the fact that he could very well become a rare documented case of a person who died of a stress related heart attack while in their twenties. Or maybe he would be the first, and his case would be published in a medical journal. Surely, there _had_ to be someone else in the entire span of human history.

At that moment, Raphael passed by, and Michael summoned him over. “Raphael, come meet Castiel’s guest, Mr. Winchester.”

Raphael didn’t outwardly react, but he did slide his eyes over from Michael to Dean rather slowly, and it took him a faction of a second too long to speak. “Charmed.”

Again, Castiel got the strange sensation that he was missing something, and that the name Winchester meant something to his brothers. He shook it away, telling himself it was a ridiculous thought. It had been a miracle that Castiel had even crossed paths with the Winchesters; there was no way any other Novak would have reason to.

“Hey, Mikey, Raphael. Where are the other _Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles_?” Dean asked, trying to be funny. He leaned back and gave a wheezing laugh at his own joke, even if it fell flat elsewhere. Though, to Dean’s credit and Castiel’s consternation, he kept trying, “No, but seriously. What’s with all the _el_ names? Your dad have a God complex or something?”

Michael blinked, offended. “I beg your pardon.”

Castiel thought it was time to intervene. Michael was relentless where their father was concerned, and he may end up making a scene, after all. “He was only joking.”

Dean’s mouth fell open, realizing he’d once again put his foot in it. “Yeah, no. I just meant—you know. _El_ names. Casti _el_ , Micha _el_ , Rapha _el_ , Gabri _el_.”

Both of his brothers snapped their attention towards Castiel, barely concealed bitterness held on their faces. Michael’s lips pressed together in disapproval, and Castiel knew that Dean was digging both of their graves deeper with each word. The worst part was, Castiel actually felt as if he’d done something wrong, which was ridiculous, because why _shouldn’t_ Castiel be able to tell his friends about his siblings who were no longer present? Why should he have to pretend that Anna and Gabriel didn’t exist? Why should he sweep Lucifer’s crimes under the rug? They were his family. He could divulge any information he wanted to anyone he damn well pleased.

Unaware of all of this, Dean kept prattling on. “You only got like, two of you who don’t have it, right? And, I mean, _el_ is Hebrew, isn’t it?” He seemed unsure of himself now, even if he knew he was right. He appeared regretful for even bringing it up, because now he was floundering. “For _God_?”

At once, Castiel forgot all about his brothers and their glowers. His focus snapped back to Dean, his lips parting slightly as his eyes traced his profile. It was as though Dean had pulled that knowledge out of thin air.

Castiel shouldn’t have been so surprised. Remarkably, Dean never failed to surprise him.

A rush of victory and pride spiked up within him as Michael and Raphael, too, seemed shocked. But Michael recovered quickly enough. He said, “That’s correct. Our father felt it important we know we are God’s children.”

Dean gave a lopsided smirk. “So, he _did_ have a complex?”

Michael hummed in lieu of saying whatever was on his mind.

And then Hannah materialized at his side. She was in a simple black dress, and had a headset on. She shot Castiel a small, hidden smile, and he did his best to return it without it seeming too shaky. She said, “Excuse the interruption, sir, but the mayor just arrived.”

“Oh, thank God,” Dean breathed, and Castiel had to agree.

Michael inclined his head to both of them. “If you’ll excuse us.” Without waiting for another word, he and Raphael walked away.

Castiel felt as if he’d just broken the surface of the ocean, but it was only a matter of time until the undertow swept him back under again.

“That went well,” Dean said humorlessly, and took a long pull of his drink.

Castiel gave him a withering look, shoulders sagging. He knew it wasn’t Dean’s fault that things had gone so wrong so quickly. Dean had done what he promised. He was on his best behavior; which, of course, still wasn’t ideal, but he was only being himself and Castiel couldn’t fault him for that.

The only problem was, Michael, too, was being himself.

“What?” Dean asked off Castiel’s expression.

Castiel sighed and turned away to walk into the parlor.

“ _What_?” Dean said again, following him. He sounded amused now.

With any luck, they could avoid Michael for the rest of the evening.

Thankfully, Dean's meeting with Anael and Uriel went slightly better. While neither of them appeared to particularly like him, Uriel seemed humored by him, and Anael didn't care either way. It was less than perfect, but Castiel never anticipated them falling head over heels for Dean like he had.

Even if hoped they would.

A few hours later, Castiel found himself in a conversation with the dean of KU's business school and the head of the Kansas Board of Education, a man who seemed hell-bent on banning certain books from the high school curriculum that were currently required reading. Castiel wasn't so much a part of the conversation as he was on the side of it, not really listening and not knowing when it was appropriate to nod to suggest he was. He'd tuned out long ago, waiting for a pause that would allow him to excuse himself.

All he knew was, he was glad Dean wasn't there to hear the conversation, because Castiel assumed there was only so much biting his tongue Dean could do in one night. Luckily, Castiel prided himself on his restraint, especially when he could feel it slipping.

His eyes scanned lazily around the room, trying to find Dean. The last he'd seen him, Dean had disappeared in search of the waiter offering mini-cheeseburger sliders. He must have found him, because Castiel at last spotted them standing near the fireplace. 

Dean was leaning his elbow against the marble, one leg crossed over the other, and his body oriented towards the waiter. The waiter was turned fully towards him, the silver tray tucked under his arm as he smiled at something Dean said. The burgers were long gone.

Something ugly coiled itself around Castiel's ribs, constricting until it pushed pressure up his esophagus. He wanted to look away, but he couldn't. Dean's eyes flashed up and down the waiter's body, and that wasn't supposed to happen. This wasn't how the night was supposed to go.

Why should that waiter get to stand so close to Dean? Why did he get to look into Dean's heated stare? Why did he get to look openly down at his lips, to count his freckles, to pick out every individual gold-tipped eyelash? Why should he get Dean's affection, while Castiel received none?

Castiel should go over there. He should break them apart. Because Michael was around and they were standing out in the open where anyone could see them flirting mercilessly. If Michael did see them, it would only give him another reason to dislike Dean.

Castiel needed to break this off before it got out of hand.

"Castiel!" he heard someone shriek excitedly from the foyer. Every head in the room turned towards the group of children, in velvet holiday dresses and little tuxedos, coming through the door. Jody and Donna were shepherding them in, both of them wearing long evening dresses and dangling earrings.

Jack broke away from the group to scamper up to Castiel, his small dress shoes slapping against the floor.

"Excuse me," Castiel muttered to the two men before him, and walked to meet Jack halfway. He found himself grinning, happy for the distraction, as he knelt down and scooped Jack up. He rested him on his hip, Jack's arms twining around his neck and his legs bent and dangling loosely.

"Castiel, I'm going to sing!" he declared excitedly as Claire rushed towards them. She was tugging Kaia by the wrist behind her.

"I know, I heard."

The envious anger that had been simmering in his gut turned as Jack smiled widely at him. His expression was sweet, innocent. Castiel defied anyone not to cheer up upon seeing it.

"Hello, Claire. Kaia," he said when they settled before them. Their hair was braided neatly in pigtails. Shy, Kaia stayed close to Claire's side.

Dean then appeared next to him, a grin spread across his face as he looked at the children. Castiel cast his gaze behind Dean, looking for any sign of the waiter. He sighed, relieved, to find him missing.

"Hey, everybody!" Dean called exuberantly. He held his palm out to Jack. "Up top, big guy." Jack gave him a weak high-five, his entire hand barely the length of Dean's fingers, before giggling and returning his arm to Castiel's neck.

"Ladies," Dean said to the girls. He leaned over, hands on his knees, to be eye-level with them. "You look really pretty in those dresses." Kaia smiled embarrassedly, and hid her face into Claire's shoulder.

"They're too fancy," Claire told him.

Dean's grin faltered a little as he straightened out. "You're tellin' me," he agreed under his breath without moving his mouth.

"Okay, come on, kiddos! We need to go line up," Donna was saying as she rushed over. Jody was herding the children into a line in front of the fireplace. Around them, more people were filing into the parlor as the staff directed them.

Castiel felt Jack’s weight slipping downwards, and he jounced him back onto his hip. Jack tipped his head onto Castiel’s shoulder and let out a loud yawn. That moment was perhaps the most content Castiel had felt all night.

"Hi-ya, Castiel," Donna said cheerfully, leaning in to kiss his cheek. She moved on to Dean and did the same. "Dean. Didn't expect to see you here."

"You kidding? I wouldn't miss the performance!"

"You're in for a treat!" Donna promised. She placed her hands on Claire and Kaia's shoulders to turn them around. "Now, come on, guys. Don't wanna keep them waiting."

Castiel bent down to deposit Jack on the floor, and Donna and the children made their way towards the fireplace.

"Good luck," Castiel called after them, as Dean waved, gave a thumbs up, and said, "Break a leg."

Once all the guests were settled, Michael stood in front of the group of children and officially welcomed everyone. He launched into a speech about the orphanage, giving the background of the facility and its importance in the community. He added a personal story about the days Raphael and Uriel were adopted, and said the orphanage was an important part of the Novak family for giving them two brothers. The reporters held out their recording devices and photographers snapped photos.

Next, Jody and Donna introduced the children, and thanked everyone for their support and donations. They stepped to the side, and the children sang _Silent Night_. It was a terrible rendition, but they all looked so happy, and Castiel could hear Jack's voice above the others. The guests recorded videos of the song on their phones, no doubt to post them on social media later. Dean also recorded it, but Castiel was certain it was only to preserve the memory. There was pride twinkling in Dean's eyes.

When the song concluded, the photographers took a group picture of Michael with the orphans, Jody, and Donna. The staff came around to collect checks from the guests for the donation.

Castiel helped the women bring the children back out to the cars, with the promise of Santa Claus bringing them presents if they went to sleep quickly. Jody and Donna worked so hard to give them a normal Christmas, and they were able to thanks to gift donations from people in the community. Castiel had provided some himself, and bought two more for Claire and Jack to give them when the other children weren't present.

When he returned inside, he didn't see Dean in the foyer or parlor room, and some of that tight, sinking sensation overcame him again. He swallowed before it could take its hold, telling himself not to get ahead of himself. He probably just couldn't see Dean. After all, many of the faces further away from him were lost to a blur to his eyes.

But a voice in his head told him, no, Dean wasn't in sight. He'd know him by the line of his shoulders, by the way his weight shifted as he moved.

Heart pounding, he scanned the room for the waiter Dean had been flirting with earlier. He didn't see him right away, which only caused his heart rate to quicken even further. He tried to be rational. Because Dean wouldn't do that to him. Dean wouldn't abandon him to find some dark room with a man he didn't even know.

On second thought, that sounded exactly like something Dean would do.

Just as the panic was setting in, it was cut off abruptly when Castiel's eyes snagged on the waiter. He breathed, fighting back against the vertigo he was currently experiencing from the influx of contradicting emotions.

He moved further into the foyer, weaving his way through the crowd in search of Dean.

He at last found him in one of the side rooms, in what his father had called his writing room. There were two loveseats in the middle of the room, facing each other over an ornate table. A large desk, unused for many years, was against the back wall. He had memories of his father sitting at that desk, scribbling on notepads, typing on a desktop computer, and the rare occasion when he worked with an old typewriter that he called good luck. His father wrote articles for financial journals, guides to the business world, and one unfinished autobiography at that desk. He’d even once attempted a children’s book. Castiel never read any of it. He never had the interest.

There were a few other people in the room, standing around with drinks in their hands or sitting on the furniture. Dean was standing in front of the desk, having managed to find the one decoration in the house that proved a family once lived there.

It was a large family portrait, taken the year before Lucifer was arrested. They'd posed for it in front of a photographer, who blew up the HD image and painted over it to make it look like something that belonged in a museum. He remembered the argument that took place right before the photographer snapped the picture in their parlor. He couldn't quite recall what it was about, but Lucifer and their father were shouting at each other, and Michael had put himself in the middle of it. Gabriel somehow got dragged in as well, and Castiel remembered fearing he was going to storm out the door and never return. The only thing that settled Castiel's nerves was Anna slipping her hand in his. She’d promised that Gabriel wasn’t going anywhere, and that the three of them would go out for a meal once this was all over.

Looking at the portrait now, one would never know what had taken place.

They were all buttoned up in their Sunday best. The portrait sat inside a thick golden frame, and there was a display light shining over it. A plaque on the bottom read in scripted font, _The Novaks_.

Castiel personally never liked it. A twinge of humiliation ran through him every time he looked at it, and he wondered if Dean thought it was too gaudy. 

He rested at Dean's side and stared up at the portrait.

"That's Anna," he said, his voice low, after some time. He didn't know why he said it. It seemed rather obvious by process of elimination.

"Which one's Gabriel?" Dean asked, his voice equally quiet. Castiel pointed. "Which makes that one Bernie Madoff."

Castiel pressed his lips together. "Yes, that's Lucifer."

Dropping his gaze from the portrait, Dean shifted it to focus on Castiel. Castiel was aware of the emotion on his face when he looked back, of the feeling of loss. He was never able to stomp down what he was feeling with Dean looking at him.

After a moment, Dean smirked playfully. "Well, I gotta tell ya, Cas, that thing makes you look like the family that died in a tragic plane crash over the Swiss Alps."

Castiel slid his eyes back up to regard it. "No, we don't," he said flatly. "Clearly, it was a yachting accident off the coast of the Mediterranean."

He looked back at Dean to see if the joke had landed, and a burst of pride lit him up when he heard Dean snort. "That right?"

"Yes. There was a storm and large rocks. The coast guard couldn't get to us in time."

He watched Dean grin down at the floor, shoulders rumbling in a quiet laugh. He was shaking his head slightly. "That's pretty funny, Cas."

Castiel had nothing to say to that. As he watched Dean, it occurred to him that it was Christmas, and for the first time in years, it felt like it. It was Christmas and he was spending it with Dean.

And he would trade all the other holiday seasons he’d ever had to keep standing there watching Dean smile, and to know he was the reason for it.

“Mr. Winchester,” Michael’s voice came from behind them. The happiness in Castiel’s chest instantly turned into a rock that dropped into the pit of his stomach. They both looked over their shoulders to watch him approach, his hands tucked neatly behind his back and his posture impeccable.

“Oh. Hey,” Dean said, his expression guarded once more and his muscles tensing. Castiel watched his brother warily, knowing that Michael sought Dean out for a reason, and he wasn’t going to like it.

“Do you like the portrait?” Michael asked, tone drawn out and even. His eyes gave the briefest flicker upward to indicate the family portrait.

“Yeah—oh, yeah, totally,” Dean said a bit too quickly. “Yeah, it’s not Stepfordy at all. Totally a normal thing to have.” He shot Castiel a wink, and it only made him feel fractionally better.

Michael hummed in response, and there was no way he’d come over to make conversation. For a moment, Castiel let himself hope that maybe Michael was giving Dean a chance, to not judge him by first impression.

“I was wondering if you’d like to make a donation to the orphanage tonight, Mr. Winchester.”

Castiel closed his eyes slowly. His entire body wilted.

“A what? A donation?” Dean repeated, thrown off guard.

Castiel wanted to rescue him. He opened his eyes quickly and took a step forward, angling his body so he was between Dean and Michael. “Dean has already made a charitable contribution. He frequently volunteers at the orphanage with me.”

Michael’s brows lifted, and he looked past Castiel like he wasn’t even there. “Is that true?”

Dean gave an unsure sound, his teeth clacking as he opened and closed his jaw a few times. “Yeah, I mean—I guess. I dunno. Never really thought about it as volunteering.” He smiled nervously, eyes flickering to Castiel for help. Castiel wanted to tell him to stop talking. “They’re good kids. I like hanging out with them. Molding young minds and all that crap.”

“Well, if you don’t see it as volunteer work, perhaps you would like to make a monetary contribution,” Michael prompted.

Castiel held in a growl, but he felt his upper lip twitch into a snarl as anger seethed through him. “Michael. Stop.”

Michael didn’t stop. He turned his cool eyes on Castiel. “It’s a fair request, brother. You brought him as a guest. All our other guests have given to the cause.”

Dean must have caught on by now to what Michael was trying to do, because his jaw was jutting out and his eyes were dull and dead as he stared, unblinking, at a fixed point between Michael’s eyes. And Castiel didn’t want this. He didn’t want Dean to feel as if he didn’t fit in. Castiel wanted to share his life with Dean, as Dean shared his own with Castiel.

He wanted Dean to feel welcome.

Because what was the alternative? To segregate Dean from everyone else in his world? Castiel had only known him for a handful of months, and already he knew he wouldn’t be able to cope if Dean were barred from him.

“Isn’t a donation supposed to be voluntary?” Dean asked, voice hard. “Not, you know, because of peer pressure?”

They were attracting some looks from the others in the room. Castiel felt his neck heat up with shame.

“This isn’t peer pressure, Mr. Winchester,” Michael assured him, “because we are not peers.”

“Brother, please,” Castiel begged, halfway to fury and half to desperation. Michael ignored him.

Dean stepped forward, boxing Castiel out. He stood in Michael’s personal space, his body rigid and taut like a violin string. “Yeah? Who are my _peers_ , then? Huh? What, you think I should be hanging with the staff? You think you’re better than them, too?” His bared his teeth as he spoke, spurred on by disgust. He didn’t care who might have been looking on.

He lifted his arm and pointed towards the exit of the room, gesturing towards the front of the house. “Or maybe the guys freezing their asses off outside parking _your_ cars? Hell, maybe I ain’t even good enough for that.” His volume grew with every word. “What, you want me to sweep the floors after? Because the cleaning staff—hell, they ain’t even people, are they?”

“Dean,” Castiel warned, and at once he knew he shouldn’t have done it. Dean snapped his eyes towards him, all that rage and righteous anger and self-doubt zeroing in.

Michael stayed as collected as ever. “Your own opinion of yourself speaks volumes, Mr. Winchester. Tell me, if you don’t respect yourself, how am I expected to?”

Dean’s lips twisted into a bitter smile, and he made a noise in the back of his throat that could have been a laugh under any other circumstance. He nodded to himself. “You know what, screw it,” he said. “I’m glad I’m not your _peer_. I’d rather be begging on the side of the road than spend another second with you sanctimonious dicks!”

Someone nearby gave a sharp, quiet gasp.

Dean didn’t waste another moment before shoving past Castiel and stalking out of the room. Castiel turned, following after Dean as if pulled by an invisible thread. He couldn’t let him go. He couldn’t.

“Dean, wait.”

He didn’t have to ask twice. Dean wheeled around on him so quickly that Castiel didn’t have time to stop walking. They ended up too close into each other’s personal space.

“ _What_ , Cas? Huh? What do you want?” Dean demanded. “Why the hell did you even bring me here? Fuck—why are you even my friend? What, am I just another charity project to you?”

Castiel sucked in a sharp breath, his lips parting into it. He didn’t bother closing them again, and let the air chap them. He felt a pressure forming behind his eyes.

“Dean. I—,” he started, shaking his head infinitesimally.

“You _what_?”

Dean’s eyes were wide, searching, looking for a reason to stay.

The thought came to Castiel, then, unbidden.

_I love you. I’m in love with you._

The realization stole over him, paralyzing, like it had at Benny’s diner months ago, when he didn’t know what to call it. Even if he did, he wouldn’t have even dared to think the word. The sensation had left him reeling with confusion and uncertainty for days. But now, he was sure of what it was.

It was on the tip of his tongue, every atom in him vibrating, poised to say it. But he knew it would only make Dean angrier. And Michael was standing right there, watching. Everyone in the room was watching.

He let his gaze drop. Quietly, he asked, “How can you think that?”

Dean scoffed. Castiel knew it was the wrong thing to say. He didn’t mean to insult Dean further. He hadn’t meant to insult him at all.

“Forget it,” Dean spat, and then he left.

Castiel’s hand limply reached out for him and caught only air. He made to follow him. He couldn’t let him go.

Michael’s hand wrapped around his upper arm, gripping him tightly and holding him in place. “Leave him,” he said. “Honestly, Castiel, he isn’t worth your time. Look at him, incapable of composing himself, knowing he doesn’t belong here. Do you really wish for someone like that to drag you down with him? _You_ belong here.”

Castiel glared at him, his anger returning in full force.

He did not know if he belonged at Dean’s side, but that’s where he wanted to be.

He ripped his arm out of Michael’s grip, still holding his eyes with resentment. Not long ago, he would have averted his gaze completely. Not long ago, he would have obeyed.

He walked out of the room and went to find Dean.

///

The violin music and chatter sounded so far off now, as Dean sat with his back to the house atop the hill. The Novaks had a private dock jutting out into the lake; it had sturdy wooden planks without a splinter on them, a guardrail, and a few benches on the gangway. White Christmas lights were strung up along the light posts, twinkling off the gentle waves juddering against the shoreline. A sizable deck boat was tied up to the cleats along the dock, rocking against the fenders so the starboard side wouldn’t hit the wood.

It was way too cold for a boat to be on the water. The engine would probably freeze, but Dean didn’t want to point that out. The Novaks probably knew, anyway, and just didn’t care. They’d just buy a new one when it broke down. No biggie. It was just another pretty thing that was easily replaceable.

Dean hoped it would freeze over while he was out there. He almost took off his shoe and dipped his toes in the water just to see how long he’d have to wait, but the water level was too low, and he could already tell it would be frigid. The air was frigid, anyway. It came out in puffs around his mouth and nose whenever he breathed out, and his hands were starting to numb.

Not that he really felt any of it.

He took a long swing of the champagne bottle he’d lifted from inside. He talked it off one of the waitresses easily enough, and the alcohol was making his mind buzz. It provided a pretty great layer of insulation against the cold.

He was sitting on the very end of the dock, his legs crossed as he stared out across the lake, towards the town where all the normal people lived. The people like him. Not these fancy rich dicks up on their high hill.

Footsteps sounded behind him, and he didn’t have to turn around to know who it was. He heard the weight of them, the gait. It had become so familiar, he realized, and he could pick it out as distinctly as he could Sam’s or his dad’s.

He rolled his eyes. He came out there to be alone, but he knew Cas would find him eventually.

He took another swig of the champagne and grimaced against the taste. “This stuff sucks, you know? It’s way too fruity.” In truth, he really didn’t mind it. He’d only ever drank champagne bought from a grocery store on New Year’s, and this stuff was way better than any of that. But he was used to more bitter tasting drinks.

Behind him, Cas sighed. His footsteps sounded again and, as they got closer, Dean felt them reverberate through the dock. Cas stood over him for a few long seconds, squinting out at the lake, fists held at his sides, and then he sat down.

“I’ve been searching for you for an hour,” he said. He wasn’t looking at Dean, and Dean wasn’t looking at him, but he saw the white cloud form around his face as he spoke before dissipating up towards the stars. “I thought you’d left.”

“Almost did.”

Cas turned towards him. “Why didn’t you?”

That was a great question. Dean found he didn’t have an answer. Maybe he’d just wanted Cas to come looking for him; but, now that he’d gotten his wish, he didn’t feel any better.

“You’re my ride, remember?”

He took another gulp.

“I’m sorry. About my brothers. They can be . . .”

“Assholes?”

Cas paused, considering. “Generally, yes.” And then, “But they don’t know you, Dean. If they did, they would think differently.”

That wasn’t an excuse, and it wasn’t fair. Dean didn’t need that crap put on him. He wasn’t any different from most people. He wasn’t special or anything. Even if he were, why would that make him more of a person than anyone else? Why would that mean he should get more respect?

He shook his head, grimacing. “You don’t get to treat people like dirt because you think you’re better than them.”

Cas’ words came out rushed. “They don’t think that.”

Dean scoffed. Of course, Cas would come to their defense. He didn’t see anything wrong with it, about the fact that Michael did everything but say the words, _I’m superior and you’re white trash_. It was all he ever knew.

And he hated it because it was true. Because Cas grew up in a big house and went to fancy parties with tuxedos and champagne and diamonds. He went to college and had his whole life planned out. The world had been served to him on a literal silver platter. And Dean could barely pay rent without resorting to breaking the law.

He knew, rationally, that Cas was too good for him. He knew he never had a shot in hell with him. It just hadn't sunk in until now.

“Why, because they raise money for kids? Put their last name up on hospital wings? Kiss babies, huh? And everyone’s supposed to call them heroes? Newsflash: doing something for your own gain kinda cancels out the good deed.”

“Dean.” His voice was quiet, hurt.

Dean looked at him, feeling guilty. He hadn’t meant to upset Cas like that. Sometimes he forgot Cas was a Novak. He didn’t really see him as one. But, whether Dean liked it or not, that was Cas’ family.

“Yeah,” he said, voice hoarse. He looked down again.

He knew he shouldn’t have taken this out on Cas. Cas was better than that—better than _them_! He wished he could have taken back all the things he’d said inside. But Cas already knew that. He wouldn’t have come out there if he didn’t.

Or maybe he would have.

There was a long stretch of silence between them. The water lapped against the posts on the dock. The champagne swished as Dean took another drink, and handed it to Cas, who fisted his hand around the neck and gulped some down. They continued to pass the bottle between them. Behind them, the violins went into a crescendo, and there was applause.

Dean’s fingers itched towards Cas’ hands resting on his lap.

“How did you know that _el_ was Hebrew for god?” Cas asked, his brows pulled together in thought. It was an abrupt change of subject, but Dean was okay with that. He wanted things to get back to normal between them, whatever _normal_ was.

“Sam’s full name is Samuel,” he said, tapping his fingers against the glass bottle between his legs. “I dunno. I looked up the meaning of it a while ago. Guess I just kinda remembered it.”

“Why did you look up the meaning?”

Dean wanted to laugh. It wasn’t really that uncommon. People did that all the time. There were entire websites for the meanings and etymologies of baby names. “I don’t know, man! I just Googled it. What, you never looked up what your name means before?”

Cas shook his head, and Dean made a mental note to Google it for him later.

“What does _Dean_ mean?”

Dean shrugged. It depended on the language. In one language, it meant _leader_ ; in another, it meant _law_. He didn’t really know if either of those applied to him. But there was one that he liked enough to admit, even though he didn’t know why. “Valley.”

He felt Cas’ eyes on him, searching.

“Can I show you something?” Cas asked, making Dean glance up at him. He nodded slowly.

Cas heaved himself off the wood, brushing off his trousers before extending his hand down to Dean. Dean grabbed the champagne bottle before clapping his hand into Cas’, putting his feet flat on the ground, bending his knees, and allowing himself to be hauled up. There was a split second where they were too close into each other’s space, and their hands were still clasped between them. And then Cas let go, and Dean told himself to take a step backward.

Dean was led back towards the house, the both of them trudging up the hill and across the patio. The music was a lot louder inside, and the sound of laughter and talking was mixed with the clanging of cutlery.

Cas passed all of it, and brought Dean to the base of the staircase. They circled up it together, Dean a step behind him, following Cas down the hall towards the back of the house. He gripped the bottle of alcohol tighter and took a long gulp, trying to ease his pulse back into a normal speed. It always picked up whenever he and Cas were anywhere near a bedroom together, as his imagination tumbled straight into the gutter.

The champagne was almost gone. The last swills of it sloshed at the bottom of the bottle.

Cas stopped in front of one of the last whitewashed doors in the hall and pushed it open with a creak. Dean winced slightly when Cas flipped on the light, and the room came into view. A full-size bed with a rich wooden frame sat in the middle of it. A navy comforter was placed neatly atop it. There was a writer’s desk and chair next to the bed, and an antique dresser on the other end of the room, both of them matching the wood of the bed frame. A few posters hung on the tan-colored walls—one of the constellations with their names typed out between each one, one of all the US presidents up to Obama, and one framed portrait above the bed with a white background and oval depicting spotted stars and a red dot that must have been Mars. The description under it read, _The night sky over Lawrence, Kansas – September 18, 1999_.

There was a canvas painting depicting a battle that looked like it was the Revolution, and there was a gold crucifix on the wall next to the door. A prayer card was right under the cross. On it, it said, _Tessa Novak 1956-2000_ , with the Lord’s Prayer printed under it.

Glow in the dark stars and planets were on the ceiling, but it looked like someone had tried to take them down. There was still some blue tack on the white paint.

Dean got one glimpse of the room and felt a grin spread out over his cheeks. “No way. Was this—?” He walked further into the room, coming to rest at the foot of the bed. He swiveled around to look at Cas. “This was your room as a kid, wasn’t it?”

Cas nodded solemnly. Dean turned back to peer around the room again. He could imagine little Cas sitting at the desk doing his homework, lying in the bed with a book in his hands, smoothing out the posters so there wasn’t a crease in them. He walked towards the dresser and saw a little ceramic bowl with a collection of different kinds of rocks in it. He picked one up—a smooth, green one—and inspected it before setting it carefully back down. He felt himself still smiling.

“I lived here until my freshman year of college,” Cas said. Dean spun around on his heels, his shoe making a dent in the rug, and wandered back over to him. Cas’ eyes were scanning over the room in a detached sort of way, like he wasn’t really looking at it, like he wasn’t standing there in the present, but rather remembering it as something from a long time ago.

He pointed towards the night sky snippet above the bed. “Gabriel got me that for my thirteenth birthday. That was right before he left.”

Dean felt the corners of his smile fade, and his eyes lose their glimmer, until it was completely gone.

Cas strode across the room to a doorway on the other side of the bed. It led into a Jack-and-Jill bathroom, and Dean followed him through to the other side, into another bedroom. This one had yellow walls, and it looked more feminine. There was a vanity table and mirror inside, and a collage of frames with drawings of all different cityscapes in each one. There was a teddy bear resting against the pillows on the untouched bed.

“This was Anna’s room,” Cas said, his voice going cold and unemotional, like he was a tour guide at a historical site. Dean wanted to shake him, to tell him, _no, don’t do that, you don’t have to do that around me_.

“When I was little, and I had a nightmare, I would come in here and sleep in her bed with her. She would read to me until I fell asleep.”

Cas wandered over to the bed and sank down on the edge of it, his hands wrapping around his knees. Dean stared at him, not knowing what the hell to say.

After a minute, Cas looked up at him earnestly. “I didn’t bring you here to make you uncomfortable, Dean, and I certainly didn’t mean to insult you,” he said. “I asked you here tonight because . . .”

Dean waited for Cas to find the words to what he was trying to express. He knew it could take a while, and whatever he chose wouldn’t do his thoughts any justice, but Dean was willing to meet him halfway.

At last, Cas continued, “There are certain people—not many, but a few—who . . . matter to me.” He looked Dean right in the eye and clarified, “You.”

And Dean thought he understood. He looked around the room with fresh eyes. He knew what it was like to be abandoned, to lose people he cared about. This place was a museum, a memory. Every piece of it had been preserved, and none of it had been lived in for years.

Cas didn’t want Dean to be part of his past. Cas wanted him to stick around.

Dean forgot all about what happened earlier. Whatever wound it had torn open in him patched itself up.

He licked his lips, trying to find a way to respond, as he set the champagne bottle down on the vanity table and walked to the bed. He sat down next to Cas, folding his hands between his knees. “Well, hate to break it to you, buddy, but you’re not getting rid of me,” he said. He couldn’t look Cas in the eyes. It’d sound too heavy if he did. “Or Sam. You’ve officially a resident of the Winchester Island of Misfit Toys. Tough break, but that’s the way it is.”

He could almost feel Cas’ expression against him—the smile that wasn’t exactly on his lips, the way his eyes dragged up and down Dean’s profile, the softness to his features. “I am?”

“Oh, yeah. You’re stuck with us.” _With me_.

Cas shifted a little to face forward again. “I suppose there are worse people to be stuck with.”

“Well, you haven’t seen me in action yet! I’m gonna make your life a living hell.”

Cas’ voice became a little lighter, and that was how Dean knew everything was cool between them again. “I assure you, you already are.”

Dean caught his eyes, smiled. Cas did the same.

And, after a long moment, Dean sat up straight and suggested, “How about we head back downstairs? We need more champagne.”

Cas nodded, but he didn’t move. “I have a better idea.”

Dean raised his brows in interest.

“We leave.”

Dean let out a short laugh at how unexpected that was. “Dude, this is _your_ party.”

“It’s not my party. It’s my family’s company’s party.”

“Oh, your family’s company, huh?”

“Yes.” He stood up, and Dean tilted his head up to keep his gaze. “And I think we should leave it.”

Dean was game for that. He really didn’t care where they were, as long as they were together. Besides, this party blew. He picked himself up off the bed. “Okay, Cas. Where we going?”

Cas frowned in thought. Apparently, he hadn’t gotten that far in his planning. “I don’t know. Perhaps we should drive around until we find our destination.”

That sounded alright to Dean. Only, he had one amendment: “After we swipe another bottle of champagne.”

Cas squinted in a conspiring way. “Of course. Naturally.”

Dean was feeling bold. He reached between them and slipped his hand into Cas’. Cas didn’t pull away. He held on tighter, and tugged Dean towards the hallway.

///

The next afternoon, Dean, Sam, and Cas showed up at Bobby’s house a little before dinnertime. The stacks of broken down, gutted cars in the salvage yard had a thin layer of show blanketing them, and Rumsfeld perked his head up from where he was curled up on the flatbed of an old pick up. He jumped down when the three of them got out of the Impala, and scampered directly to Sam’s side, where he was met with scratches behind the ears.

It was too chilly to stay out for very long. Dean’s hands were already numb where they were shoved in his jacket, one of them wrapped around a crinkling piece of newspaper with something special for Bobby inside. They walked up the creaking wooden steps of the porch and into the kitchen through the screened in side door.

“Bobby?” Dean called, the warmth of the indoors a balm of relief to his cheeks. Beside him, the tips of Cas’ ears and nose were red, and the color made the blue of his eyes pop. He saw Cas glancing around the kitchen, taking it all in—the outdated cabinets and appliances, the yellowed linoleum floor, the small breakfast table that had definitely seen better days. It was a far cry from the decadence they were in the previous night.

“In here,” Bobby’s voice came from the living room, and the three of them walked further into the house. Bobby was sitting at his desk in front of the fireplace, the flames within popping and causing an orange glow to outline him. He was writing something down in a ledger, probably the earnings from the last round of cars at the garage before the holidays, before closing the book and pushing it to the side to be lost in the mess of piled papers and old tomes.

The rest of the room looked pretty much the same as it had for as long as Dean could remember. There was the patterned wallpaper, the threadbare couch and armchair, both of which he’d spent many a night sleeping on, the bookshelves shoved in the corner, the ancient TV set, and the whole shebang. The only difference was the dilapidated plastic Christmas tree to the side of the room next to the entrance to the hall. It was dusty and ratty, and Bobby really only ever put it up when he knew they would be spending Christmas with him. There weren’t any other holiday decorations in sight.

As for the ornaments on the tree, they were a hodgepodge of what most people might call garbage, but what Dean called a lifetime of memories from one corner of the country to the other. His fingers tightened around the trinket in his pocket.

“Hey, boys. It still snowing out there?” Bobby asked as he stood up from the desk.

“Nah. Stopped a little while ago,” Dean said. Behind him, the tags on Rumsfeld’s collar were jingling as Sam knelt down to pet him.

“Get that mutt out’a here, would ya?” Bobby scolded.

Sam looked up with a frown. “Come on, Bobby. It’s cold out there. And it’s Christmas.”

“Dogs don’t celebrate,” Bobby reminded him, but as always, he was a pushover. “Fine. But he shits on the rug, you’re cleaning it up.” He turned his attention to Cas then, and said, “Cas. Good of you to join us. How’s that truck’a yours holdin’ up?”

“Fine,” Cas said, glancing briefly at Dean. “Dean did excellent work.”

Dean felt a little embarrassed by the compliment, even if Bobby wasn’t so fazed by it.

“I’ll be sure to keep him around, then.”

Cas then slipped his backpack off his shoulder and held it to his chest. He unzipped it and rummaged through the top. “I brought this,” he said, fishing out a half gallon of eggnog. “Sam and Dean said you enjoyed it.”

Of course Cas had brought something for Bobby. Dean sometimes wondered if there was some rich person etiquette class that taught him to do that. Maybe that’s all wealthy people did: just swapped wine bottles and scented candles every time they went over each other’s houses.

Bobby’s eyebrows lifted behind his cap in a pleasant surprise. “Sure do,” he said, lifting the carton from Cas, who seemed pleased. “I’ll just break out the brandy and this’ll be good to go.”

“Not so fast,” Dean said, trying his best to keep his voice serious, but he couldn’t hold it up for very long.

Sam got to his feet, grinning wildly.

“Oh, _hell_ ,” Bobby complained, knowing it exactly what was coming. “Not this again.”

“Yeah. This again,” Sam said.

“You can’t stop it, Bobby,” Dean added.

Cas seemed lost. “What’s . . . going on?”

Dean took out the folded newspaper wrapping from his pocket and offered it to Bobby, who stared down at it with enough apprehension to still be able to deny how much he loved this. He took it from Dean’s hand and tore away the wrapping.

Inside was the handle of a pull-start cord to a leaf blower, with some of the cord still attached to form a loop so it could be hung from the boughs of the fake tree.

Bobby scowled. “I bet you boys think you’re pretty funny, huh?”

Dean and Sam shared a look and laughed at the inside joke.

“What is it?” Cas asked, still having no idea what was going on.

“A long story,” Bobby griped, but Dean knew he appreciated it.

“Come on, put it on the tree!” Sam said.

“Yeah, in a place of honor, Bobby!”

“Right in front!”

Bobby rolled his eyes and walked over to the Christmas tree. It was about two feet shorter than he was. He held the new handmade ornament up, and moved it around here and there to find a place for it. When he did, Dean cheered, and Sam clapped.

“Yeah, yeah, idjits,” Bobby groaned, but he was fighting back a smile. “I’m gonna go make that eggnog now. Should probably heat up the food, too.”

As Bobby disappeared into the kitchen, Cas leaned into Dean and asked, “I don’t understand. I thought you said no presents.”

“That’s not a present. It’s a tradition!” Dean told him, beaming. “Come here, I’ll show you.” He led Cas up to the tree, and Sam crowded in next to them.

Every ornament was something they’d made over the years.

“We used to send him one every year,” Sam explained. He reached up and ran his finger along the tinsel of soda can tabs strung together. It’d taken them the better part of a year to get enough to make it. There was another one from when they were older, that one made of beer bottle caps.

There was a small vial of dirt from the Red Rocks; a construction paper snowflake covered in glitter that Sam had made in first grade; a car cigarette lighter that Dean had stolen from one of his old classmate’s parents’ cars in Iowa, fitted with twine wrapped around the base so Bobby could hang it up; an old iron key that opened god knows what with a string through the loop, which they’d found on the street in some state Dean couldn’t recall anymore; a pawn chess piece from that time Sam was on one of his elementary school’s nerdy chess team; and so many more.

“Sam, you remember this one? That hermit crab shell you found on that beach in San Diego?” Dean said, touching the delicate pearl colored shell. There was a chip in it from age.

“Oh, yeah!” Sam laughed. “And check it out—Mr. Acorn Man.” It was a bunch of acorns glued together in the shape of a stick figure. One of the legs had broken off. Two straight lines and one curved one in black marker formed a face on the head piece.

“Mr. Acorn Man?” Cas asked, and it sounded funny coming out of his mouth.

Dean barked out a laugh at the memory. “Yeah, god. Sammy was—how old were you? Like six? He tried putting them together with duct tape and nails and a hammer before I finally got him a hot glue gun.”

Bobby reappeared in the room, two glasses of eggnog pinched and hanging low at his sides in each hand. “That one’s one of my favorites,” he admitted grouchily, and offered them each a glass.

Dean noticed Cas’ eyes tracking along each ornament longingly. He remembered the tree in the Novak’s house from the previous night. It had been pretty and all, but it lacked character. It occurred to Dean that Cas had probably grown up with Christmases just like that—shiny and sterile and hallmark.

He guessed, even though he wished John were there and that they were the type of people who could afford to get each other gifts, he’d lucked out with how he spent Christmas in the past. And, who knows, maybe Cas could be a part of that in the future.

Ellen and Jo arrived as the take-out food was still heating in the oven. Jo immediately gave Cas a big hug when she saw him, claiming she didn’t know he was going to be there, and he kept his arms stuck to his sides awkwardly as if he had no idea what a hug was.

When they squeezed around the breakfast table to eat, Dean realized that, even though Bobby and Cas had met plenty of times at the garage, they’d never had an extended conversation before; and Ellen had never even met him. He kind of felt like he was taking Cas home to meet his parents for the first time, but weirdly, it didn’t make him nervous. This was his family: a mix-match of people who had nowhere else to go on Christmas, no other group of people to belong to. He thought Cas would fit right in.

They talked about Sam’s upcoming internship at one of the law firms in town that Cas had helped him get—or, that’s what Sam said. According to Cas, “I only passed along your resume. You’re the one who impressed them, Sam.” Dean still wasn’t crazy about Sam being employed under the Evangelist umbrella, but he kept that a secret; plus, he trusted that Cas was only trying to help his brother.

Then, they talked about where Jo was looking for college. Ellen was beaming excitedly as she spoke, and Jo stayed pretty quiet about the whole thing, only nodding and offering an “uh-huh” whenever she absolutely had to. Dean knew that she wanted to enlist in the military and follow in her dad’s footsteps instead of going to college. Ellen was adamantly against that, but luckily the topic wasn’t brought up around dinner, so a blowout catfight was avoided.

Somehow, as time went on, the conversation turned to the meaning behind the pull-start cable now hanging on Bobby’s tree. Dean, Sam, and Bobby took turns recounting the time, years ago when the boys were still living with Bobby, that they’d been tasked with cleaning the sodden leaves out of the gutters.

“And then Sam over here has the bright idea of getting the leaf blower out—,” Dean said, pointing his thumb over at his brother.

“No, no, hang on,” Sam interrupted, holding up one finger, and Dean knew exactly what he was going to say. “The leaf blower was _your_ idea. I was gonna use a rake. You took it a step further.”

“Alright, whatever,” Dean dismissed. The matter was still up for debate, but it wasn’t important right then and there. Besides, who could even remember anymore? The point was, _somebody_ had broken out the leaf blower and lugged it up the ladder. “So, there we were: me and Sam up on the roof. I was holding the thing up, pointing it at the gutter.” He mimed lifting up the machine as he spoke. “And Sammy starts pulling, trying to get the motor started.”

“And Bobby heard it and ran out!” Sam excitedly cut in with a belly laugh.

“He takes one look at us and we know we’re dead meat. We don’t even think about it, right—we just kick the ladder down so he can’t get up there with us. So, we’re stuck. Didn’t even cross our minds that he could just pick the ladder back up again—which, he didn’t do, by the way.”

“Yeah, wanted to teach you boys a lesson about doing the job right,” Bobby grumbled, sliding the last bit of his chicken through his marshmallow-sweet potato casserole on his plate.

Everyone’s eyes were on Dean with grins on their faces, waiting to hear the rest of the story. He only felt Cas watching him, but he tried to look at everyone equally as he told the story, as much as his gaze kept pulling back towards him like a lure.

“What did he do?” Cas prompted.

“He just shouted at us, ‘You idjits better stay up there! Cause the second you get down—’”

Sam joined in with him, their voices overlapping, “‘I’m gonna shove that leaf blower up your asses!’”

They both dissolved into laughter, with Bobby shaking his head and laughing on the inside. Dean looked over at Cas to see if he liked the story. He, Ellen, and Jo gave appreciative chuckles of their own, but Dean knew it was probably one of those situations where you had to be there.

Still some laughter in his voice, he picked up his fork and skated it through the leftover gravy smearing his plate. “Anyway. He left the ladder down there and just went back inside. Me and Sam were stuck up on the roof for the rest of the day ‘til he took mercy on us.”

Bobby leaned back in his chair. “Well, figured you two knuckleheads would still be up there trying to figure out a way back down if I didn’t.”

There was a lull in the conversation, until Bobby lifted his eyes to Cas and said, “So, Cas. Good to finally see you without your nose a book.”

Cas shifted a little, straightening his posture instinctively now that the attention was on him. “Thank you for having me,” he said simply, and then, his expression changed, “I apologize if you have any objections to me doing my homework here. Dean said you don’t mind, but I don’t want to get in the way of—.”

Bobby snorted. “Please. I should put you on the payroll. Dean gets more work done when you’re here than he does without you.”

“He’s just trying to show off,” Jo cut in, and Dean shot her a hard look before he could stop himself. Because, yeah, okay, he was good at fixing cars. He wanted Cas to be impressed by that. Who cares?

“I—,” Cas said, his mouth left open as his eyes shifted to the side and then downwards and finally back to the center again in a circular, jerking motion. Whatever he was searching for, he didn’t find it. He returned to more neutral ground, and thank god for that. “Have you always owned the auto body shop, Mr. Singer?”

“Call me Bobby,” he said for what must have been the hundredth time since they met, “and no. Not always. I was in the service for a while. Stationed here in Lawrence. Never saw combat myself. Flat feet. That’s actually how I met John, but I’m sure these two military brats have told you enough about his time in the marines.”

They hadn’t, really. Dean had told Cas a few stories, but he guessed he was hoping that, one day, John would be able to tell them to Cas himself. “Aw, Bobby, don’t be salty cause you got stuck pushing pencils behind a desk all day.”

Bobby didn’t seem impressed, but he knew Dean was only teasing, so he let it slide. “Uh-huh. Anyway, once my time was up, I stayed in town. My wife was a local, and it just seemed like too much of a hassle to pack it all up and head anywhere else. So, opened up this place.”

Dean leaned back, his knees spreading a little more to get comfortable and his arm going up to hook around the back of Cas’ chair. He told himself this was allowed, because it was just a chair, after all. His fingers brushed against the place between Cas’ shoulders when he sat back against the touch, but it was okay. It didn’t mean anything. They were all just really cramped together at the table.

“What about you, Ms. Harvelle?” Cas asked, tipping his chin in her direction, and there he went again being so formal. Dean wanted to roll his eyes. “How did you meet Sam and Dean?”

Ellen took another sip of her eggnog—they were all probably on their third or fourth cup—and cleared her throat. Next to her, Jo cast her eyes down somberly. “Well, like their daddy, my husband was stationed here. Bill wasn’t a marine or anything like John. He was an infantry man.”

“He was a sergeant,” Jo said proudly, prompting Ellen to nod.

“That’s right. Few years after we had Jo, he was deployed out to the Middle East.” She swirled her drink in her hand, eyes glazing over with memory. “Wasn’t lucky enough to make it back home.”

Dean looked at Jo quickly to make sure she was okay, and then shared a look with Sam. He remembered his own father’s tour. It was the only one John had ever done during their lifetime, and he was glad about that. He didn’t think he could have handled another eighteen months of sleepless nights, worrying about whether or not they’d get a letter delivered to their door telling them they were orphans; he didn’t know if he had it in him again to tell Sam that everything was fine, that he wasn’t worried because Dad was tough. He didn’t think he could lose another parent.

“I’m sorry,” Cas told her, and his voice was so damn earnest. It wasn’t one of those knee-jerk condolences that people give to be polite. Cas meant it, because underneath that robot shell was a bleeding heart.

Ellen gave a shaky smile and knocked back the rest of her drink. She slapped her palms down on the table and said. “Alright. Who’s up for dessert?”

When she and Jo had first gotten there, they had a box from one of the bakeries in town that they only ever went to for special occasions. Usually, they were stuck with grocery store birthday cakes. The box was put in the fridge, and Dean had wondered what was in it ever since.

He perked up, now that the shadow of memory had passed out of the room. “Is it pie?”

Much to Dean’s delight, Ellen shot him a look over her shoulder. “Boy, what kinda person do you take me for?”

She took the box out of the fridge. It was berry flavored.

As Ellen turned the oven back on, Sam’s eyes slid over to Dean before landing on Cas. There was something devious in his smile, and Dean knew he wasn’t going to like what came next. “Hey, Ellen?”

“Yes, sweet pea?”

“Why don’t you tell that story about that time Dad brought us back into town for a couple days and you babysat us?”

Dean pulled a face, because apparently they weren’t done telling embarrassing stories from their childhood. Except, this time, all the discomfiture would be on Dean. And Cas really didn’t need to know about it.

“Come on, no one wants to hear that again,” Dean tried with a groan.

He was trying to hide the heat already flaring in his cheeks, but Cas must have seen it, because he straightened out again and said to Ellen, “I’d like to hear it.” No one else heard it but Dean, but there was humor in his voice. No matter how innocent he sounded, he knew exactly what he was doing.

Dean buried his face in his hands. He’d totally get back at them for this.

About an hour later, after they finished the brandy, Ellen and Jo wished them Merry Christmas and headed home. Soon after that, Bobby went up to bed, and the three of them decided to sack out in the living room for the night. It was late, and eggnog still sat heavily in Dean's gut. The alcohol from it was still spinning in his head, sweet on his tongue and making him delightfully warm. Or maybe that was just the fire burning in the fireplace behind Bobby's desk.

Or maybe it was Cas, pressed sleepily against him as they watched _March of the Wooden Soldiers_ on the couch (following Dean and Sam’s annual argument as Sam insisted the movie’s real name was _Babes in Toyland_ , which Dean refused to even acknowledge). It was required Christmas viewing, and of course Cas had never seen it. The low volume of the old TV competed with the hiss and pop of the flames.

Sam was curled up on the floor, a flannel blanket under him and a throw pillow from the couch beneath his head. Rumsfeld was lying down next to him, snoring soundly, with Sam's arm slung over his stomach where he'd fallen asleep petting him.

"Oh, this is the best part," Dean said as the boogeymen made their entrance. His voice was quiet, as to not wake his brother, but it felt loud in the silence of the room. Cas was sitting so close that their shoulders were brushing, and Dean had to physically stop himself from lifting his arm to wrap it around Cas and pull him in closer.

He felt Cas' eyes on him instead of on the screen, which annoyed him a little bit because this really was the best part and Dean wanted him to see it. He glanced over, about to chide him, but something stopped him. Cas' eyes were droopy, his hair a mess from the long day and his tie loosened more than usual. The firelight was flickering orange across his face, alternating the placing of the shadows caused by the straight lines and angles of his nose and jaw.

"Dean," he said, and Dean only knew it because he'd been looking at his lips. He watched the way his name formed in Cas' mouth. He knew he should stop looking. That was probably a good idea.

"Huh?"

"I have something for you," Cas said. Dean blinked back up at him.

" _Huh_?"

"I know you said no gifts. I bought it before I'd known that." He leaned over to fish through his backpack on the floor. From it, he pulled a square box, wrapped in red-and-white candy cane striped paper, and held it out for Dean to take. His expression was taut, doubting his own actions.

Dean shook his head. He couldn't open it. He couldn't do that. Whatever was in there, it was probably like, a million bucks, and it would be really thoughtful and personal, and Dean was already trying his damnedest not to kiss him.

"No, man, come on!" Dean argued, gently pushing the box away. "You know the rules."

Cas looked hurt, and Dean couldn't stand it, but he was also way too proud to give in. He didn't want Cas spending money on him. Hell, he didn't even let Cas pay for Dean's half of the bill whenever they went to Benny's.

"I don't need a handout, Cas," he said.

Cas looked back up at him, eyes boring into him. "It's not a handout, Dean. It's a Christmas gift." He offered it again, waiting, patient. He was always way too patient with Dean. "I'm told normal people exchange them."

Dean sighed. He could feel his willpower waning. Because he was always way too lenient with Cas.

"I didn't get you anything," he said in one last attempt.

Cas stayed quiet for a long second. And then he whispered, "I don't need anything else from you, Dean."

In the crackling of the fire, Dean felt his heart seize up. _Anything else_ , Cas had said, like Dean had already given him so much.

 _What if I do?_ Dean wanted to ask. He didn't.

He took the gift from Cas' hand, and it was a little heavier than he expected it to be. He tore back the wrapping to the box inside, and his eyes went wide. He gaped at the brand name on the square box.

"I can't take this, Cas," he said quickly. "It's too much—."

"Dean." There was a smile glinting in Cas' eyes. Giving this to Dean meant something to him. "Please don't hand it back to me."

Dean swallowed, and looked back down at the gift in his lap.

 _Rolex_.

Pushing the rest of the wrapping paper away and letting it flutter down to the floor, Dean braced himself and opened the box with a quiet, fresh snap of hinges. A simple silver watch rested inside, the band thick. The face was a color blue that reminded him of Cas' eyes.

He couldn't swallow. His throat felt swollen.

"I, um—I noticed the band of yours was fraying. I thought you might like this better," Cas stumbled out. Unsurely, he asked, "Do you like it?"

Dean didn't know if that was the word for it. "I love it," he heard himself say from somewhere very far away, his tone amazed. He looked up at Cas, only to find him smiling softly down at his lap. Dean had the urge to slide his palm against Cas' jaw and turn his face back towards him.

He undid the belt of his old watch and set it down on the coffee table. He took the new one out of the box and slipped it onto his wrist. The metal bit cold into him, but warmed quickly. Immediately, he was afraid he'd do something stupid to break it—like accidentally bang it against a wall or forget to take it off in the shower or get engine oil in the ticker. Someone like him didn't have something like this.

"Look at that. Perfect fit." He held his wrist up to show Cas.

Cas nodded, proud. "Perfect fit."

They turned back to the movie. Dean kicked his feet up onto the table, crossing them at the ankles. After some time, he felt Cas press closer into him, and his head dipped to rest on Dean's shoulder. Dean froze, his eyes darting down to see if this was real. Cas was asleep.

At once, Dean relaxed, a sense of comfort sweeping over him and making it easy to breathe. A perpetual, small smile lighting his face, he tugged his arm carefully out from between them and put it over Cas' shoulders. Cas hummed in sleep and buried his nose into Dean's chest. It should have made Dean nervous, it should have made him pull away; but it only felt like the right way to end the day.

The last thing he remembered before nodding off himself was the light of the fire reflecting in the silver of his new watch.


	8. Chapter 8

It rained on the first day of spring semester. That had been over a week ago, and Castiel was already buried up to his nose in homework. The only reason he had agreed to go out that night, to attend KU’s basketball game against Nebraska State, was because it was Dean’s birthday.

Their entire friend group, along with most of the school, would be at the game; but first, Castiel headed to Charlie’s dorm to pregame before heading to the Phog, KU’s basketball arena. Meg was walking with him, hanging off of his arm as they trudged through the old, slushy snow on the walkways through the campus.

“How long ‘til we get there? I’m freezing my ass off,” Meg griped, her arms hugging his tighter, making it a little difficult to walk in their proximity. “I don’t even know why we’re going over there. We could have just pregamed at your place. Maybe have some fun . . .”

He sighed through his nose, seeing the air fog around him, and ignored her comment. “We should be there soon.” His cheeks were numb, and he’d also lost feeling in his fingers long ago, but that could have very well been from the loss of circulation in Meg’s hold. He squinted at the path ahead, trying to pick out the names above the residence halls’ doors. There were vague impressions of lines and words, but he needed to get closer to see them.

“She said she was in Corbin.”

Meg stopped walking abruptly, causing him to stop short, too. “Corbin?” she said incredulously. “We passed that like, five minutes ago.”

Castiel blinked. He’d never lived in the dorms, and he never had any friends in them, either, so he wasn’t very familiar with their exact locations. “Oh. I . . . didn’t see it.”

Meg rolled her eyes and they turned around to retrace their steps. Footprints from their shoes were already in the slush, a skid in one of them where Castiel had almost slid over. “Think you need to get your eyes checked, Clarence.”

That was preposterous. Novaks had 20/20 vision. Castiel couldn’t have bad eyesight, because it would just be further proof of how poor of an excuse for a Novak he was.

“I don’t need glasses,” he maintained.

She let out a loud noise of disbelief and tilted her head up. “Why not? I think you’d look kinda sexy in them. I dunno if I could contain myself.” She tugged at his arm a little, grinning teasingly up at him.

He pressed his lips into a line. That had been her second comment about sex in five minutes. He knew she was becoming impatient with him, but only because she made it so glaringly obvious. It wasn’t just the passive comments, either. Every time they kissed, she tried to reach into his pants. When she slept over, she’d taken to wearing nothing but a bra and underwear to bed. When he dropped her off at her house after a date and her family wasn’t home, she would always invite him inside to “fool around.” Then, of course, there was the time they went into Walgreens and she bought a box of condoms along with the rest of her items, which made Castiel pull at his tie with a healthy amount of Catholic guilt and shame as the cashier unflinchingly rang them up.

She wanted more, and as much as he tried, he wasn’t certain he could give it to her. He did his best to feel something for her, to try to think of her in that way, to get back even a fraction of the desire he’d felt when they were alone at the jungle themed frat party. It wasn’t as though he weren’t attracted to her. She was very pretty, and he enjoyed her company enough. But whatever allure he’d felt for her on the night of the party had been so fleeting, and he hadn’t felt it since, even when he attempted it.

He always ended up thinking of Dean instead.

Dean’s hand on the small of his back during taco night.

Dean’s tongue darting out to lick his lips.

The way Dean’s t-shirt clung to him as he worked on an engine in the heat.

Dean pressing him up against the bathroom door, his eyes hooded and wanting as they stared down at Castiel’s mouth.

Dean on the morning after Christmas, when they’d both woken up suddenly in the very early hours on Bobby Singer’s couch. Dean was on his back, and Castiel was on his side, pressed between Dean’s ribs and the back cushions of the couch, his arm slung around Dean’s stomach. The way, in his bleariness, he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the green of Dean’s irises, even though he knew he should. The way Dean blinked back at him as he woke up, for what must have been three full minutes. The way Castiel had never wanted to kiss him more than he had in that moment.

New Year’s Eve, when they had been together with their friends, and Meg brought Castiel in for a kiss when midnight hit; and he had wished it had been Dean.

Now. With Meg’s arms around him and their sides pressing together. And he wished he were feeling Dean’s weight, sharing in Dean’s warmth.

He didn’t know if he could ever feel that way towards Meg, and he didn’t know why. He considered the possibility that he was gay, but he hadn’t ever experienced such desire for any other man, either. It was just Dean. And he felt it all the time, especially when they were together. Even in the moments he wasn’t actively thinking of being with Dean, it was constantly in the back of his mind.

They signed in at the front desk of Charlie’s dorm and went upstairs. He could already hear the sounds of laughter and music coming through the thin door as he knocked. Charlie answered shortly, opening up to a modest kitchen and a living room with simple college provided furniture. “Hey, guys! We were starting to think you got lost,” she said, a drink in her hand. She stood out of the way to let them in. “We’re all in my room.”

They followed her into one of the doors off of the living room, where a small group had already gathered. Sam and Eileen were there, as were Balthazar and Charlie’s girlfriend, Gilda. Charlie’s room was decorated mostly with fantasy movie and what Castiel could only assume were video game posters. Comic book action figurines were on display on the shelves. String lights were placed high up on all four walls, wrapped around the room. They cast a warm glow on the white walls.

“Hey!” everyone shouted in a chorus, lifting their drinks up to welcome them. Meg left his side to pour herself a drink from the bottles of vodka and juice on the nightstand.

“Everyone hide your women,” Balthazar said. He was in the chair at Charlie’s desk, turned away from it to face the rest of the group. He was tipping it back on two legs, one foot on the bottom of the bed for balance. “Kansas University’s most handsome bachelor has arrived!”

“Most handsome what now?” Meg cut in, raising her brow as she looked over her shoulder at him.

The chair came crashing down to all four legs with a thud. Balthazar told her, “He’s still single until there’s a ring on it, darling.”

It wasn’t unheard of for Balthazar to hit on him on occasion, but it wasn’t very frequent. Castiel knew it didn’t mean anything. It usually only happened thanks to two criteria: when he was the only male of consenting age around and, “You’re drunk.”

“Yes,” Balthazar agreed easily, a flourish of one hand showing off the red plastic cup in his other. “Question is: why aren’t you, love? Allow me to correct that.” He stood up and walked across the room to join Meg at the nightstand.

Castiel looked back up, scanning every face. There was one very significant one missing, which he noticed the moment he walked in. “Where’s Dean?”

“He had to stay late to help Bobby out with something,” Sam told him. “Said he’d meet us at the game and we should save him a seat.”

Castiel looked down at the carpet. He’d wished Dean had told him that. It wasn’t as if he didn’t like hanging out with their friends, but he always felt more comfortable when Dean was around. Dean always did most of the talking for the both of them, and Castiel never had to be left alone one-on-one with anyone else besides Sam. Sometimes he thought he was being too clingy, but Dean never seemed to mind.

“Yeah, pretty lame, right?” Eileen said. “We bought a cake for him and everything.”

Castiel didn’t know how to respond to that. Balthazar appeared out of nowhere and handed him a cup, and Castiel had almost forgotten that he’d been making him a drink. He took it with a tight smile and brought it to his lips. For a second, the only thing he could see was the tinted white inside of the Solo cup and the orange liquid rushing towards him. It tasted sweet and bitter all at once, and he imagine that might be what Dean’s mouth tastes like.

When he brought the cup back down, Meg was at his side again. She seemed content to not find Dean anywhere in the room.

///

Dean only had one delivery that night, so he figured he could make it to the game before the first buzzer if he shagged ass. Because there was no way he was missing the cheerleaders' halftime show. It was his birthday, after all, and some things were just sacred.

He met Crowley in the parking lot of some seedy no-tell motel just outside of town, and was told to take the package to the boss' house near Holcom Park. Dean didn't bother putting the taped-closed brown cardboard package in the trunk for safekeeping anymore, and his eyes no longer flickered over to it in curiosity as he drove. He guessed he was just getting used to doing this, so it didn't seem like a big deal anymore.

When he pulled up to Meg’s house, there was a sleek, black Mercedes in the driveway. Dean let his eyes slide over it appreciatively as he put the Impala into park on the curbside and picked the box up from the seat. He didn’t cut across the lawn, but rather walked up the driveway in order to get a closer look at the car. He halted near the driver’s side, nodding to himself as he took it in.

That’s when he heard voices coming from the other side of the garage door. They seemed to be arguing, and they pulled Dean out of his reverie to look up at the pale yellow light streaming out through the windows on top of the garage door.

He looked down at the box in his hand, knowing he should just drop it off on the front porch and head out. He had somewhere to be, anyway.

But maybe he wasn’t as jaded to the contents of the box, after all, because something in his mind urged him to eavesdrop. He tried to shake away the sensation, telling himself that the people inside probably weren’t even on the same subject as he was.

But they might be.

Okay, so he was curious. Call it a professional curiosity.

Stealthily, he moved up to the side of the garage door and put his ear close to the wood, hoping to hear the people inside talking. All he got were muffled voices. One of them was definitely Yellow Eyes, as Dean had begun to call him in the absence of an actual name. The other person’s voice was modulated and baritone, and Dean couldn’t pick up any of the words.

He looked this way and that, searching for another entrance or a window he could put his ear up against. He peered around the corner of the garage, and _yahtzee_! There were a couple of wheeled plastic trash cans lined up next to the wall of the garage, a tiny, high up window about a foot to their left. Briefly, Dean wondered if it was worth the effort, but he wouldn’t be able to get it out of his head if he didn’t try. He rounded the corner and set the box down on the grass next to the garage.

He grabbed one trash bin by the handle and wheeled it underneath the window, cursing under his breath when it hit a rock and rattled hollowly from within. It wasn't loud enough for anyone inside to hear it, so he carefully pressed it up against the wall and retrieved the second one. He climbed up on top of the lids, hoping to god they'd support his weight, and clumsily picked himself up to his feet.

He was just tall enough to peer through the window to see what was going on inside. The garage was big, room enough for two cars to fit comfortably. There was a workbench along the wall with power tools and other assorted items on top, with hooks over it where hammers and wrenches and other sharp metal tools were displayed. A few other cabinets and boxes lined the other walls, and there were a couple children's bicycles that looked like they hadn't been used in years collecting dust in the corner. Yellow Eyes was standing in the middle of the room, his dark apron and gloves stained with a mess of red. Plastic sheets were spread out on the concrete floor as he skinned the buck on the table in front of him with a sharp knife. It was all pink flesh up to the neck, where bloody gook then clumped to the hair from the shoulders upward. The buck's black eyes stared out emptily.

Dean retched a little at the sight, and wanted to look away when Yellow Eyes peeled off another strip of skin.

Poor Bambi.

He realized Yellow Eyes was mid-sentence.

"—don’t know what you expect me to do here," he said casually with a smile. Dean turned his head, but couldn't see whom he was talking to. He put his fingers on the ledge and tried to heave himself up to get a better view, but then he stumbled on the tips of his toes and decided better of it.

"It's like I told you before—I can't control who my dealers hire. Maybe if we set up an application process, things like this could go up the chain of command and we wouldn't have this kind of prob—."

"Enough," the monotone but pissed voice interrupted him. Dean knew that voice from somewhere. "You were told to correct the situation months ago, and yet our product is still being pandered all throughout town with complete disregard for secrecy."

 _Fuck_ , that voice was so familiar. Where had he heard it before?

Yellow Eyes stared ahead, the humor not leaving his expression, even when he dropped his shoulders with a sigh and set down his knife. He picked up another, larger one—this blade serrated—and began cutting into the deer's belly with a wet sound like ripping fabric. Dean wanted to barf, but he settled for grinding his teeth.

"Look," Yellow Eyes said, "Novak—."

Dean didn't hear the rest. He nearly fell backwards with the shock of it, and he'd felt like someone had taken a jab to his stomach.

Raphael stepped into view, settling a few paces away from the table, like he didn't want to get blood on his shoes. "You fail to understand the importance of this, Azazel, what with that police officer breathing down my neck."

Dean's phone buzzed in his pocket with a text. "Not now, Sammy . . ." he muttered, only for it to buzz again two seconds later.

Yellow Eyes waved the knife around as he spoke. "Can't you just get the police chief to turn a blind eye?"

"Not if we don't get this situation in hand," Raphael said sternly, no room for debate left. "If we allow this to become rampant, the public will catch on. If the public catches on, the police will have no choice but to investigate. It will force their hand."

"So, instead you're forcing mine?"

"Yes."

Another vibration. Dean hissed and took his phone out of his pocket to silence it, just in case Sam tried to call and his ringtone went off. The screen lit up with one text from Sam and two from Cas. He froze when he saw Cas' name, something like guilt numbing him.

Cas probably had no idea that his brother was some big time drug lord. Hell, maybe all the Novaks were! Maybe this went deeper than just Raphael. Dean always thought they were mafia. A few months ago, he would have felt vindicated, but now he wished he'd never found out. This would crush Cas.

"Sort it out," Raphael said, tone uncompromising. "Do not make me step in and do it for you."

The smirk on Yellow Eyes' face faltered momentarily. "Alright," he said after a beat. "Consider it done. Think I know who the problem might be stemming from. Some guy who's been working for me for a couple years, thinks he runs the show.” He gave a wink. “I'll get him in check."

"You’d better."

Dean realized the conversation was ending soon, and the Impala was still parked out on the street. He had to get out of there before Raphael did.

Careful not to make any noise, to not even breathe, he climbed down from the garbage bins and messily pulled them back into their original spot. He picked up the package from the grass and snuck around to the front door to leave it on the portico.

He started quickly across the lawn to his car, and forgot all about the flood light over the front door. It clicked on, bathing the night in a pale glow. Dean sprinted the rest of the way, heart in his throat as he ripped open the car door. He didn't even bother putting on his seatbelt or turning on the headlights before shoving the key in the ignition and flooring it. Behind him, he saw the garage door sliding open.

He pulled into a neighboring driveway and quickly killed the engine. He slouched down in his seat, holding his breath as he kept his eyes glued to the rearview mirror.

Soon, the Mercedes slid down the block, not slowing down once, so Dean figured he was in the clear. He watched the car's brake lights taint the air red at the stop sign, and then it turned and was gone.

Dean breathed out through his teeth, relaxing.

His phone vibrated again. Three more texts from Sam, and one missed call. One text from Cas, asking where he was.

Dean didn't even know where to begin answering that question.

///

The loud squeak of rubber sneakers skidding against polished hardwood echoed throughout the arena as the players feigned and wove around each other on the court. The steady thud of the ball being dribbled was drowned out by the lyrical chants and unintelligible shouts of the crowd packed into the stands. Nebraska was winning by two points, and the KU students around Castiel called their support to their team.

Their seats were high up in the nosebleed section of the arena, and they were practically level with the banners dedicated to the KU Hall of Fame teammates of old. Castiel scanned the section for what must have been the fifteenth time in the last hour plus. He squinted until the concrete landing at the bottom of the stairs next to the door came into focus. Someone turned the corner into the stands, and his heart kicked up until, disappointingly, he realized it wasn't Dean after all.

Maybe he should try texting him again.

However, when he glanced over at Sam down the row, he found him with his phone pressed to one ear and his finger in the other, face twisted uncomfortably as he strained to hear. He didn't appear to be speaking to anyone. A few seconds later, his mouth formed a curse and he pulled his phone away from his ear to shake his head down at it. He began typing.

Sam appeared worried, and that worried Castiel. It wasn't unheard of for Dean to be tardy to group events. In fact, it was expected. But he was never this late. He was beginning to think Dean wasn't coming at all, but why wouldn't he have told them? He would have at least answered Sam. Castiel prayed he wasn't hurt—or worse. The empty seat beside him that Castiel had saved for Dean was beginning to feel like an omen.

The crowd erupted in cheers, catching Castiel's attention just long enough for him to dart his eyes down at the court, where a KU player had scored. The bright orange numbers on the scoreboard changed from 8 - 6 to an even tie.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket and opened it to the texts he'd sent to Dean, just in case his phone was malfunctioning and not alerting him to new notifications. The phone was working perfectly, and he had plenty of service. Dean just hadn't answered him.

Meg's slender white hand came into view, her fingers pressing down on his wrist so he would gently lower the phone. "Hey, you want some more?" she asked, offering the plastic water bottle full of vodka that she'd snuck inside.

"No, thank you," he said, and kept staring at his phone, willing the three dots that indicated Dean was typing him back to appear. They didn't.

He looked back over at Sam to see if he'd had any luck. Sam was blinking down at his phone, posture gone rigid and perplexity creasing his forehead. Next to him, Eileen leaned in and said something to him. He appeared to shake himself out of a stupor to look down at her, and offer a shaky kind of smile as if to tell her he was alright. He must have felt Castiel staring, then, because his eyes swept up, and his lips thinned.

Castiel wanted to shove down the row of seats and rip Sam's phone from his hand, to see for himself what had him so confused. But then Sam looked away, his gaze focusing on the game. He wasn't collecting his coat or making excuses to leave, which meant whatever news he'd just received hadn't been terrible. It didn't lift the weight in Castiel's gut, though.

He realized he was still staring when the buzzer blared. He jumped slightly, and looked back at the court. The players were running to the sidelines, breathy and sweaty, and the cheerleaders were rushing out, pumping their arms up over their heads and waving their pompoms. The glitter on the bows in the girls' ponytails sparkled in the lights and their mini-skirts jounced as they moved. The boys' were wearing sleeveless shirts to show off their chiseled arms.

Castiel glanced towards the door again, expecting Dean to bound out of it and look over the railing. He didn't, and Castiel tried to swallow down the bubble pressing its way up his throat. Dean would never miss the cheerleaders.

///

He ended up getting to the Phog just as the game was letting out. Droves of students, faces and chests painted crimson and blue, were coming out of the doors with sagged shoulders and dejected expressions. Dean guessed it wasn’t a win for the home team, so he wasn’t too broken up about not being able to attend. Still, it would have been a pretty fun excuse to get drunk on his birthday. He’d even be able to buy the booze legally now that the big “under twenty-one” was officially off his driver’s license.

He waited on the sidewalk across the street from the arena, hands fisted inside his jacket pockets to combat the cold, as he watched out for his friends. He kicked the toe of his boot against the snow bank on the side of the road, idly staring down at the indentation it made in the dirty black ice. When he looked up again, his eyes caught onto Sam walking across the pathway, the rest of their friends with him. Cas was just behind him, and Dean’s stomach soured when he noticed his hand was in Meg’s.

Dean didn’t call out for them right away. He was too busy preparing himself for another inevitable run in with Meg Masters, and he had no idea how he was supposed to steal Cas away long enough to tell him about Raphael.

Part of him considered that was a good thing. Even though he had the whole drive over to think about it, he still didn’t know how he was going to break the news. But he had to. He couldn’t keep that from Cas.

“Dean?” he heard from the other side of the street. Cas was staring right at him, which was hilarious because Cas could hardly see two feet in front of his face but he could somehow pick out Dean in the dark in the middle of a crowd at a distance.

Dean lifted his hand up in a wave. By that time, the rest of the group had seen him, and they were all crossing the street to where he stood. Meg’s boot went through the snow bank, sinking about a foot into it, but that was the only casualty, and one that gave Dean a childish rush of satisfaction. He was greeted with a slew of happy birthdays, and a big hug from Charlie.

“About time, Dean. What’d, Bobby forget what today is?” Sam said, trying to act like he hadn’t sent Dean a hundred concerned texts. But even as Sam said it, he was giving Dean a funny kind of look. His eyes were too inquisitive, like he was accusing Dean of something. Dean was pretty sure no one else caught on.

He brought his hand up to rub the chill out of the back of his neck. He hated lying to Sam, but he couldn’t have him start asking questions. “Nah. It just took longer than we thought it would.”

“We were worried,” Cas told him, his eyes big and sincere and Dean couldn’t meet them for a number of reasons. “I’m sorry you missed the game.”

Dean shrugged. “It’s cool.” He didn’t have much school spirit, anyway, which was lucky because he didn’t even go to the school.

“It’s your birthday,” Cas stated flatly.

And that was fine. Dean didn’t really care about his birthday. He hated that people felt like they needed to be nice to him for a full twenty-four hours before going back to acting like he didn’t matter. He’d rather skip the whole charade altogether. “No biggie. Just another day, right? Except, guess I can get rid of the reliable ol’ fake ID, huh? So long, Dean Hasselhoff.”

“Well, why don’t we go back to my place?” Charlie cut in. “We could celebrate. Beats standing out here in the cold, right?”

Dean nodded, and shrugged out his hands inside his pockets, making his jacket flare open. “Yeah, I’m game.”

The group started walking towards the parking lot, a line of cars already fighting to head out onto the road. Brake lights lit the snow up in red. Dean looked over his shoulder and realized Cas and Meg weren’t following. They were in a hushed conversation, and he looked kind of annoyed. Dean hoped they were fighting. Hell, maybe they’d even break up. That’d be one hell of a birthday gift.

“Cas? You coming?”

Before Cas could answer, Meg chimed in, “Actually, I gotta get home. Promised my dad I’d help him with something tonight.”

Dean tensed, trying not to think about what that something could be. He probably needed help sorting through the drug inventory or whatever. Shit, was everyone in Cas’ life lying to him?

Unless, Dean suddenly considered, Cas already knew what was going on. He didn’t want to believe that.

“Drive me home, Clarence?”

Cas looked down at her, and then briefly back up at Dean. Dean didn’t want to read too much into it, because there was no way he’d rather go have a drink with him than spend some more time with her. He had the chance to hang out with Cas earlier that night, but he’d guessed he kind of missed that boat.

But he’d be damned if he didn’t at least try. “What, you’re too good for the bus?”

She gave him a razor-sharp smile and leaned closer against Cas’ side. “Actually, yes. Besides, a bus at this time of night? Could be dangerous for a girl like me.”

Dean wanted to laugh. “See, I kinda thought that’d be your hunting ground.”

“Ouch. Words hurt, you know?” she said with calculated sullenness, but she didn’t sound hurt in the slightest. But she didn’t have a witty response to shoot back, so Dean was satisfied that he’d won that round.

Cas sighed, obviously wanting to break them up before there was blood. “It’s okay, Meg. I’ll drive you home,” he said.

She turned fully towards him, but she side-glanced over at Dean for the briefest second before saying, “You’re too good to me, angel.” She snaked a hand around the back of his neck and dipped him down into a long kiss.

Dean pouted out his lips and nodded to himself, suddenly fascinated by the streetlamp on the other side of the street. God, he hated her, especially when she purposefully started making soft moaning sounds just so he’d hear them. He wasn’t one to fight girls, but as always with Meg, he really wanted to make an exception.

He ran his tongue across his teeth. It didn’t matter if he’d won the battle; she won the war.

Finally, when the kiss broke, Cas cleared his throat and Meg clapped her hand back into his.

“See you later, Dean-o. Happy birthday, by the way,” she said, one brow arched in a challenge. He only hummed and pushed a tight smile that probably looked more like a grimace.

She started tugging Cas in the opposite direction, down the hill. Dean watched them go for a little longer than he cared to admit, waiting to see if Meg would slip on a patch of ice and fall on her ass.

Cas looked over his shoulder to meet Dean’s gaze, his eyes apologetic. That, at least, was something.

///

The drive towards Meg’s house was mostly silent. She commented on the game a few minutes into the trip, but he didn’t have much to say on the matter, so the topic died away quickly. Castiel’s eyes kept flickering towards the clock on the dashboard as he counted the minutes. The others had probably gotten back the Charlie’s by now. They were no doubt lighting candles and singing _Happy Birthday_ that very moment. Castiel loathed that he was missing it, but he kept it to himself.

It wasn’t until the truck was pulling up in front of the house did either of them speak again. He opened his mouth, about to say goodnight, but her words drowned him out.

“Hey, you wanna come in?” she asked.

He scrunched his brows together. “I thought you had to help your father with something?” He would hate to think he missed out on celebrating with Dean for no reason.

Meg let out a scoffing sound and said, “Yeah, later. Him and Tom spent the whole day hunting, so he’s probably headed off to the butcher’s now to store the meat. We probably have time.”

He blinked in incomprehension. “Time for what?”

“For a nightcap.” She rolled her eyes. Castiel wanted to do the same, but he tried to stay patient.

“It’s Dean’s birthday. We were supposed to celebrate it tonight. If we didn’t have to leave so early, we shouldn’t have—.”

“Dean, Dean, Dean,” she dismissed, tone clipped. “He’s a big boy. He’ll get over it.”

Castiel didn’t want Dean to get over it. Her words cut into his chest and hollowed out his gut. He should be angry with her for tricking him into taking her home, but he didn’t know what he’d expected.

“So?” She dipped her head in to catch his eyes. “One drink?”

He knew she wouldn’t let him go until he said yes, so he reached for the keys and twisted them in the ignition. The engine cut off immediately, and Meg was giving him a smug, victorious smile as she hopped out of the truck.

Perhaps, if he finished his drink quickly, he could still make it back to Charlie’s before everyone left.

He followed her into the house, the warmth of it immediately taking the night’s chill out of his bones. The Masters liked to keep the temperature of their home a few degrees hotter than it strictly had to be, and Castiel already wanted to take off his coat. He told himself he wouldn’t be staying that long.

When they were in the kitchen, Meg went to the liquor cabinet and pulled out a bottle of scotch, and then two glasses. She poured a double each, and handed one to him.

He realized finishing it quickly might be impossible. He usually didn’t care for whiskey unless it was mixed into a soft drink. It burned too much on the way down, and always made his eyes water. She clinked her rocks glass against his and took a long pull from it. He sipped his, wincing slightly at the bitter taste.

The rest of the house was dark and quiet around them. He wondered when Azazel would be returning. Without anything else to say, he asked, “I take it your relationship with your father has improved if you agreed to spend time with him.”

She hummed into her drink, and swallowed. “Yeah. We’re doing better.”

It wasn’t a very in depth answer, and it didn’t satisfy his curiosity. He decided to take a more direct approach. “Did you ask him about the prescription medications you found?”

She waved it away like it was of little consequence and hopped up to sit on the edge of the counter. Her legs dangled as she kicked the heel of her boot against the side. “It’s no big deal. I was totally wrong, anyway. It had something to do with the hospital.”

He nodded thoughtfully, and decided not to ask any more questions. He didn’t think she would lie to him, so he supposed he’d have to be satisfied that his family was safe and nothing unsavory was going on. Of course, he did feel guilty about telling Raphael before he had all the information. But, if Azazel were innocent, it wouldn’t matter, anyway.

“Now,” she said, her glass clicking as she put it down on the dark granite countertop. “Are we gonna talk about my dad all night or are you gonna come over here and make out with me?”

Sometimes, Meg was insatiable, and he didn’t have very much time for this if he wanted to get back to Dean. “I—.”

“Castiel. No one’s missing you, I promise.”

Her voice had been light, as if she were trying to make him feel better about missing the party. But, as he realized she was probably right, Dean was probably occupied with everyone else and didn’t even know Castiel was gone, his heart sank.

“Get over here,” she said, holding out her arm to him.

Pressing his lips together, he nodded, and tried not to show how her words had affected him. He walked up to situate himself between her legs, and she draped her arms over his shoulders. She leaned in to press a kiss to his mouth, her lips parting almost instantly. She ran her fingers through the base of his hair as her tongue slid against his, and he kept his hands on her hips.

He liked kissing her, and sometimes when they did, he could feel arousal prickle inside of him, but it was never enough to make him want to take the next step.

She seemed more than willing, though, judging by the way she began purring against his lips. She reached between them, and started to pull the ends of his shirt out of his belt. His pulse jumped, and then slammed against his ribs. Reflexively, he snatched her wrist to stop her, and leaned away from her mouth.

Meg sat back, anger flaring in her expression. “ _What_?”

“Meg, I—,” he started. He was running out of excuses and pretty soon he would just have to tell her the truth: _I don’t want to_. It seemed like the wrong thing to say, and she may not take it in the way he intended. In fact, he wasn’t even certain what he meant by it. He knew he _should_ want to.

“I have to get back,” he settled on.

From her reaction, he knew it wasn’t what she wanted to hear. She ripped her wrist out of his hold and inched back slightly on the counter. “Are you kidding me? You’d rather go hang out with _Dean Fucking Winchester_ than me?”

Dean’s name in her mouth sounded all wrong—too sharp and dripping with menace. She said it like it was a competition.

“Of course not,” he said, brow furrowing, when he really wanted to say _yes_. “But it’s his—.”

“Birthday, yeah. I get it,” she snipped. She put her hands on his shoulders and pushed him away to give herself enough room to jump off the counter. She took both their glasses, still with whiskey in them, and brought them over to the sink to pour them down the drain.

He sighed, watching the tense line of her shoulders. He didn’t know what to say. Perhaps the words that did come out of his mouth weren’t ideal from her perspective, but he needed to know: “Why don’t you like him?”

Yes, Dean could be loud and abrasive and rash, but so could she. They were both completely unfathomable at times and frequently irritating. He would have thought they’d get along. But it seemed they hated each other from the moment they met, and Castiel didn’t understand why. He was constantly put in the middle of their feud, and it was uncomfortable. He wasn’t certain if he could ignore it anymore. Perhaps, in the future, he could again, but not tonight.

She spun around, glaring. “Why does it matter?”

He raised both his brows, surprised she didn’t already know the answer. “Well, it would be helpful if I didn’t have to watch the two of your bicker so often.” They were worse and more childish than Claire and Jack when they fought, probably because they were much more vicious and they actually meant what they were saying.

She scoffed loudly, and looked upwards and to the side. “I don’t believe this,” she muttered, putting both her hands on her hips. And then, “He _likes_ you, you moron!”

Castiel wasn’t sure if he physically reeled backwards, but he felt as if he had. The room was wobbling slightly, and he couldn’t blink it right. Surely, she didn’t mean it in the way he’d interpreted it. “He’s my friend,” he said, throat suddenly dry.

“Tell _him_ that,” she retorted.

He didn’t answer. He didn’t know how. She was wrong. Dean would never like him as anything more than a friend. He’d made that abundantly clear. No matter what Castiel felt for him, it would never be reciprocated, and that was okay. He could love Dean from afar. It was better than nothing. He was making peace with that.

Or, at least, he thought he was. He wasn’t so sure now. It felt as if the wall he’d erected around that part of his heart—the one that was irrevocably tied to Dean Winchester—was crumbling down brick by brick.

He must have been quiet for too long, because Meg groaned in annoyance and ran her hand through her hair. “You know what, my dad’s gonna be home soon, so maybe you should just go back to your boyfriend.”

The word brought him crashing back to reality.

“He’s my friend,” he said again, dumbly.

She folded her arms across her chest, and looked at him hard. “And what am I, Castiel?” she challenged.

He didn’t have an answer for that, either, and she knew it.

“Uh-huh. Whatever.” She turned around and started rinsing the glasses out. “Just get out of here. Tell Dean I said happy birthday.” He knew she wasn’t being sincere.

For a second, he stayed still. He didn’t know if she really wanted him to leave or if he should apologize. It wouldn’t feel right to do the latter. He wasn’t sorry.

He left, and when he slid behind the wheel of his truck, he stayed motionless for a long time. He stared ahead, thinking. First, he thought of his relationship with Meg. He liked her, yes, but he didn’t know to what extent. Something just wasn’t clicking into place whenever he was with her, and it didn’t make sense. Rationally, he knew he should have been happy, but he sometimes questioned why he was with her—or even if he was truly with her at all. He felt as if he were just waiting, holding his breath, until something else happened—something better.

It wasn’t fair to her. She had every right to yell at him.

And he knew he should have been angry or frustrated or sad because of their fight, but he didn’t feel anything at all.

Then, he thought of what she said. About Dean. _He likes you_. Her words rang in his ears, flooded his chest with something immeasurable. He had to beat it back down, to put it in its proper place, before it got out of control. Before he did something very stupid one day like try to kiss Dean.

He knew exactly to what extent he liked Dean, and it grew every day, and he didn’t think it would ever plateau. But she was wrong. She had to be.

Of course, she could be right. He wasn’t exactly the best judge of these things, and she probably knew more than he did. But that could have also just been hope pulling at him. He couldn’t allow it. His family wouldn’t allow it, especially Michael. Dean was a gamble; Meg was safe.

Dean didn’t like him; Meg did.

Why couldn’t that be enough?

He felt his phone buzz in his pocket, and he took it out to see a text from Dean. His heart immediately plummeted.

_I’m headed to benny’s. Wanna meet me there?_

Castiel knew he should have gone back inside to apologize to Meg. He also knew that it wouldn’t do him very well to see Dean at that moment, with his pulse still spiking with bursts of foolish optimism and stabs of despondent reasoning.

But he couldn’t say no to Dean. Perhaps he should learn how to do that.

 _On my way_ , he wrote back, and started the truck back up.

///

After cake at Charlie's, Dean headed straight for Benny's and took a seat in his usual booth at the back. It was Benny's night off, and the alternate line cook was currently behind the window flipping flapjacks for the only other customers in the restaurant.

Dean ordered a Coke and slurped it down before Cas even got there, and there was currently nothing left inside the plastic cup except muddy, brown-stained pebbled ice. He tapped his fingernails against the linoleum tabletop and bounced his knee. His eyes kept flickering out the window to the slush covered parking lot, but the only thing he saw was his reflection under the harsh florescent lights.

He still had no clue how he was supposed to break the news to Cas. What was he supposed to say, exactly? That his brother was some kind of drug lord, and his girlfriend's dad was working for him and she was probably involved, too?

And what if it wasn't just Raphael? Maybe it was all of the Novaks. Maybe they were in the mob, after all, and Cas already knew everything Dean was about to tell him. Maybe telling him would force Cas' hand, and Dean would end up getting whacked by some hit man.

No. No way. Cas would never do that. Dean knew him. Even if the rest of his family was dirty, Cas wasn't like that. He was different. He was better than that.

Dean took a sip of the dregs of his drink, the taste of melted ice twanged with sugar and syrup chilling his mouth. There was a suction sound as he sucked air up the straw.

Headlights lit up the parking lot, and Dean squinted towards them until Cas' truck came into focus. They shut off abruptly when the truck was parked, and Dean could see Cas' silhouette getting out of the cab, the sharp outline of his jaw and the straight line of his nose.

Dean jounced his leg a little faster to combat the sudden wave of nausea in his stomach.

It was do or die time. He was either about to cause his best friend's world to crash down around him or he was about to find out that he was secretly a mafia prince.

The bell on top of the door tinkled as Cas walked in rubbing his hands together for warmth. He smiled gently when his head turned in Dean's direction, and it made Dean's heart seize up for probably a dozen different reasons.

"Hello, Dean," Cas said as he slid into the bench across the table.

"Hey." His voice sounded rough so he cleared his throat and shifted in his seat to calm himself down. "Thanks for coming."

"Of course. It's your birthday."

Dean wished they were there to celebrate. Even though this was his first year knowing Cas, he wondered how the hell he got through every other previous birthday without him. Looking back on it now, there was a big gaping hole where he should have been in all those memories, just like there had been earlier that night when Dean blew out his candles and wished Cas were there. Christ, he was in deep.

"Yeah, well. Sorry we kept missing each other tonight."

"We're together now. That's all that matters." He said it so matter-of-factly, like it was nothing at all. It was easy as breathing, which, for Dean, was momentarily a tough thing to do.

Dean needed something to do with his hands. He pinched the top of his straw and stabbed it quickly into the melting ice over and over again, hearing the ice crunch and shatter.

Andrea came over then, and asked, “Anything I can get for the birthday boy and his fine friend?”

He was about to ask for hard liquor, because he’d really need it for the conversation ahead; but then Cas looked up at her, the smallest of smiles quirking his lips, his hair soft and windblown, and his hands folded loosely on his lap under the table, and said, “I’d like to buy him a slice of pie, please.”

“One slice, coming up.”

Andrea walked away, and Dean didn’t even notice. He blinked at Cas, and realized this was the worst situation possible, because now he only felt guiltier. “You don’t have to do that—.”

“Dean,” Cas stopped him sternly. “Let me.”

Dean swallowed. His elbows on the table, he bent his neck and ran both hands through his scalp until they came to a rest at the back of his skull.

He realized that Cas probably didn’t want to know any of what was going on; and, if he already did, Dean didn’t want to know.

“Dean?” Cas said again, his tone concerned now and his expression questioning when Dean glanced up. “What’s wrong?”

It was now or never. Breathing out, Dean said, “Cas, I gotta tell you something, man. It’s not gonna be easy.”

Cas’ brow crumpled. He folded his arms on the table and leaned in.

Dean froze. He couldn’t tell Cas. Because then he’d always be _that guy_ —the guy who ruined Cas’ relationship with his family, the guy who broke him up with his girlfriend. Cas would be miserable and that’s all he’d ever see when he looked at Dean.

Besides that, Dean literally just couldn’t tell him. Because it would only lead to questions that he couldn’t answer. _Where did you see them? What were you doing at Meg’s house? What were you dropping off?_

Dean could either tell him the whole truth or nothing. There was no middle ground here.

He ended up chickening out.

“I really don’t care about my birthday,” he said the first thing that came to mind, laughing it off like the whole thing was a joke. “You really don’t need to make a big deal about it.”

Cas leaned back in his seat. He lifted his brow at Dean and quietly assessed him for a long time, his eyes piercing and Dean really hoped Cas couldn’t actually read minds.

After what felt like forever, he said, “Too bad. We’re celebrating.”

Dean opened his mouth. He closed it. He really hadn’t expected that to work.

Andrea brought the pie over and set the plate down in front of Dean. She wrapped a slender hand around his shoulder and squeezed lightly, smiling down at him. “Enjoy,” she said, and was gone again.

Dean didn’t know if he could eat. His stomach was unsettled, telling him that he was only digging himself deeper into a hole. When the truth eventually came out, Cas would be pissed at him for keeping it a secret. But Cas would be pissed anyway, and Dean preferred to make that Future-Dean’s problem.

He picked up his fork and sliced it into soft pointed end of the pie, watching the crust crumble and the cherries ooze out. “You want some?” he asked without really thinking about it before he bit down on his fork. He could hardly taste it, and it felt like a Herculean feat just to swallow it.

When he glanced up again, Cas was blinking at him with a mixture of shock and gratitude. It was way too heavy, like the guy had never seen Dean eat before.

Eventually, a gummy smile spread across his cheeks, and he nodded. “Thank you, Dean,” he said, and picked up his fork. Dean didn’t get what the big deal was. He watched Cas lift his fork up to his mouth, and then he realized.

He didn’t even share his pie with Sam.

He tried to dismiss it by burying his fork into another heaping. “Yeah, whatever.” But he couldn’t stop his eyes from flickering back up to catch another glimpse of Cas’ smile.

It would stay on his face tonight, Dean decided. He wouldn’t be the one to suck out Cas’ happiness. He was better off not knowing.

Dean had already gotten himself in the middle of this shit storm; he’d be damned if he was dragging Cas down with him.

///

The apartment was quiet when Dean got home, every light off except for the one in Sam’s bedroom. His door was shut, but the soft glow of his lamp peeked out from under the door. Dean opened it without knocking, and found Sam sitting up in bed, his knees propped up under the covers to make a small mountain of blankets, and his laptop perched on top of them.

Dean’s hand was still wrapped around the doorknob when Sam shot him the bitch face.

“Ever heard of knocking?”

“Is that what the kids are calling it these days?” Dean shot back. “Jeez, give a guy a head’s up that you’re watching porn before he barges in.”

Sam rolled his eyes. Dean rushed towards the bed and launched himself on the end of it. His stomach hit the mattress and the tops of Sam’s feet, bouncing slightly, and Sam complained about it until Dean rolled over onto his back. He stared up at the ceiling, his hands folded over his stomach. He was bone tired, and he thought he’d fall asleep if he let his eyes slip closed. Sam’s bed was so much more comfortable than his, probably because it wasn’t just a mattress on the floor. He actually had a bed frame and a box spring.

Dean shut his eyes.

“Hey, Dean?” Sam asked quietly. There was a soft click as Sam folded his laptop closed. “You wanna tell me where you actually were tonight?”

Dean opened his eyes.

His stomach dropped out.

“Already did. I was helping Bobby out with—.”

“No, you weren’t.”

Dean lifted his head up from the bed and looked at Sam, whose legs were now crossed under him. He was staring down at them.

“I texted him.”

The admission caused a spike of anger in Dean. What, was Sam spying on him? “You did what?”

“You weren’t answering your phone, so I asked him how much longer you guys would be working. He said he hadn’t seen you for hours.”

Dean swallowed, panicking. _Shit_.

“What’d you say?”

Sam brought his eyes up, pulling an annoyed face like it didn’t matter. But it did matter. Dean didn’t need both Sam and Bobby breathing down his neck.

“ _Sam_?”

“I told him I got it mixed up, and you said you’d be at Harvelle’s tonight working an extra shift,” he acquiesced.

That was a relief, at the very least.

“So, where were you?”

The sheets rustled as Dean sat up. He wasn’t expecting the third degree. He would have never come into Sam’s room if he had been. “Nowhere. Don’t worry about it.”

“Too late,” Sam shot back, his voice still full of that calm, empathetic therapist shit, even though Dean knew he wanted to yell. “Dean, don’t think I haven’t noticed. You disappear at all hours. You sneak out at night when you think I’m asleep. You show up late for almost everything these days. What’s going on?”

Dean shook his head down at his lap, trying to give a disarming smile, but it probably only looked as bitter as he felt.

“Dean?” And there it was—some of the anger, the frustration.

Dean shot it back tenfold. “Jesus, nothing! Come on, Sam, it’s still my birthday for another like, fifteen minutes. Can we talk about this in the morning?”

It’d been a long day. He had to watch Cas and Meg suck face, and then he had to lie to Cas—again. On top of that, John hadn’t even called to wish him a happy birthday. Dean didn’t know what he’d been expecting, but he’d hoped Dad would have remembered. He never forgot to call on Sam’s birthday. Dean didn’t even get a text.

“No!” Sam said, his voice rising to match Dean’s. He sounded like a brat. “What is it, Dean? What could be so bad? Do you owe somebody money?”

Dean scoffed wetly. That’s how he’d gotten himself into this mess in the first place. “No!”

“Then, what? Are you gambling again? Are you in some kind of trouble?”

“No! God.”

Dean stood up. He didn’t need this. The only reason he was doing any of it was so that Sam wouldn’t have to. He was doing this so Sam could go to school and have a roof over his head and clothes to wear and food to eat.

"And then there’s all the stuff!” Sam went on, tone still combative.

"What stuff?"

Sam pursed his lips again. "You're buying brand names at the grocery store all of a sudden. All our debts are gone. We didn't even have to take a loan out for my textbooks this semester. Hell, Dean, I walked past you on your laptop the other day and saw you shopping for a flat screen!" He gestured his upturned palm at the door, towards the living room.

Dean licked his lips and looked away dismissively.

He heard Sam sigh. Lowering his voice, Sam said, "Look. I just . . . You haven't always done . . . the _best_ things when we were strapped for cash, okay? You remember? With that guy in that Walmart parking lot in Omaha . . ."

Dean tried to keep the expression of nonchalance on his face. He swallowed. "I don't know what you're talking about." He knew exactly what Sam was talking about. They'd been living in Nebraska for a few weeks when John came home with a shattered kneecap after an accident during calisthenics. The government barely covered the medical bills for it, and they were drowning in them. He remembered being at the store one day, just trying to get Sam an ice cream so he would stop asking questions, when a man in a business suit came up to them, livid. Saying Dean had been cheating him out of money. Saying the girl off the reservation charged less for more.

It hadn't been Dean's finest hour.

Sam had probably been nine at the time. Dean didn't think he remembered that, and he was happy to never talk about it. After so many years, he thought he was in the clear.

"I didn't know what he meant at the time, but . . ." Sam said, letting himself trail off so Dean could fill in the rest. "I just wanna make sure this isn't one of those times."

And that was enough. Dean wasn't an idiot, and he was the adult here. He exploded, "It's not like one of those times, Sam. It's not like one of those times!"

"Then what's it like?" Sam asked patiently, and Dean knew he was only trying to help, but it didn't change anything.

Sam sagged. “Dean, come on,” he said softly. “Just talk to me, man. If you’re mixed up in something, you gotta tell me.”

Dean’s brows shot up. He didn’t want to hear Sam’s compassionate tone. If Dean had to feel like shit, Sam should, too. “Oh, I do?”

“Yes. We’re in this together. Just—be honest with me.”

Dean ran a hand down his mouth. He nodded, even though he wasn’t agreeing to anything. “Yeah, ‘cause you’ve been so _honest_ about your extracurricular activities in the past, right?”

He knew it was a step too far. Sam looked at him like he’d just been slapped. God, Dean was such an asshole. He knew Sam still blamed himself for the drugs, for Jess . . .

He should apologize.

The words got caught in the tightening of his throat.

Sam scoffed, and shook his head as he looked away. “You know what, whatever, Dean.” He quickly laid down in bed and turned to face the wall.

Irrational anger flared up in Dean again. Sam could be so spoiled sometimes. Dean was doing what he had to do for their family. Sam didn’t get to ask questions. “Yeah, whatever.”

Sam didn’t say anything, but his shoulders bristled.

Dean stared down at him hard for another long second before stomping out of the room. He slammed the door behind him, went into his own room, and slammed that door, too.

He needed a distraction. He immediately went to his bed and pulled out Dad’s journal from under the mattress. He opened it, running his fingers along the familiar pen markings, feeling the groove of their indentations on the brittle pages. He mouthed the names listed, and flipped back and forth trying to find some other clue as to what they could mean.

John hated the Novaks. Raphael was up to some shady business. Maybe the two were connected, and they had something to do with the names John had listed in his journal.

Dean tried to read the passages with that information fresh in his mind, but he came up with nothing. He stared down at the handwriting until his eyes stung and the words blurred together with the need for sleep.

He looked at the clock. 12:27 AM. Thank god, his birthday was over.

///

Castiel spent the weekend feeling remorseful. He knew he’d upset Meg, and while he couldn’t bring himself to regret going to the diner with Dean, he didn’t want there to be any animosity between them. He owed her at least that much.

At the end of the day on Monday, he waited outside her lecture hall until her final class of the evening got out. Usually, he would have spent that time at the fitness center, but he supposed there was time for that another day. The longer he waited to speak to Meg, the shorter his window to winning back her good favor became. It was best to correct this immediately and maturely.

When the doors to the classroom opened up, Castiel picked his shoulder up off the opposite wall and straightened out his spine. He put his hands in his pockets, clocking every face as they passed him, until he saw Meg. She must have sensed she was being watched, because she glanced up, and stopped walking abruptly just outside the door. The students around her shoved past her, and she shot one of them a dirty look before stepping out of the way.

She looked a little tired, like she’d been up all night. Her eyes were bruised and red with lack of sleep, and he hoped that wasn’t on his account.

“Castiel,” she said, hugging her textbook to her chest as she walked up to him. She was still bristling at the sight of him, but he took it in stride.

“I came here to apologize,” he said, knowing there was no need to beat around the bush. However, he did look up to make sure no one else was listening. This was their business, and he wished they were in a more private setting, but he didn’t know if she would have agreed to that. Thankfully, the crowd of students was thinning into almost nothing.

He continued, “I didn’t mean to make you think I prefer Dean to you, or that I don’t enjoy our time together. It was my mistake.” He gave her big eyes, canting his head to the left as he asked, “Can you forgive me?”

Her throat worked gently as she thought. She looked down the hall, and he wondered if she would say no. He didn’t want that. She was one of his few friends, and he didn’t wish to lose that.

Then, she rolled her eyes and looked back. “Don’t grovel. You look like an idiot.”

He didn’t know what that meant. He thinned his lips and looked at his shoes, not knowing whether to be scolded or not.

She let out a thick scoff from her throat and said, “Ugh. I can’t stay mad at that puppy-dog face. It makes me go all weak in the knees.”

That sounded more promising. He looked back up at her hopefully.

“Fine, I forgive you,” she sighed heavily. Shifting her book into one arm, she reached up and put her other one around his neck. “But don’t think you’re off the hook, Clarence. You owe me big time.”

He smiled, relieved that this was behind them. He didn’t object when she stood up on her toes and pressed a kiss to his lips.

It did, however, raise the question, “What did you have in mind?”

She hummed with laughter, staying close. “I bet I could think of a few things,” she promised, and sealed their lips together again.

He supposed he’d find out what that meant sooner or later.


	9. Chapter 9

Spring semester carried on without very much variety. Sam went off to class three days a week, and the other two were spent at the law firm. He worked long nights and, when he didn’t, he was usually hanging out with Eileen. Dean barely saw much of him anymore, but he told himself that was okay. Sammy was taking on the world. Dean wouldn’t get in the way of that, even if their small apartment seemed way too big without him there.

Although, he was secretly and selfishly happy when Sam got the flu and had to stay in bed for a whole week with Dean making him soup and tea and fluffing his pillows; and Dean muddled through when all that got him sick, too, because he couldn’t afford to miss work and he didn’t need Sam playing nurse.

A lot of times, Cas was there instead of Sam. They watched movies, ate crap junk food for dinner, drank beer, and hung out until it got way too late. They drove aimlessly around town, spent time with Jack and Claire; Dean watched TV on Cas’ couch while he did homework; Cas studied on the workbench or at the empty bar when Dean worked at the garage or Harvelle’s. They went to parties and sports games together with the rest of their little disjointed friend group that had formed. Charlie and Balthazar and Sam and Eileen. Even Jo tagged along every now and again.

Cas wasn’t always there, though. Sometimes, he was with Meg. Sometimes, Meg came with them to those parties and games. Dean pretended he didn’t care.

Over spring break, Cas and his siblings spent the week in their vacation home in Jackson Hole. He’d texted Dean pictures of the mountains and the wide-open spaces, the horses and cowboys. Dean pretended he wasn’t jealous. He pretended his fingers didn’t itch to grab the wheel of his car and feel the freedom of the road.

And he pretended that week without Cas wasn’t one of the loneliest he’d ever had.

He kept busy with work, mostly. And with making runs for Crowley. He even managed to get back into the poker games, but avoided any high stakes tables to keep away from Gordon and his mooks.

Before Dean knew it, the spring equinox shined its light on Lawrence. It came and went as the school year was coming to a close. Of course, that didn’t mean much for him, except maybe getting to annoy his little brother more often again. His routine would stay the same, and so would Cas’. Dean thought it was stupid, but Cas was using his last ever summer break to take more classes. Something about needing the credits to graduate. Dean didn’t pretend like he understood the money pit that was higher education.

The day Cas took his last final exam of the semester, Meg swept him off to some restaurant to celebrate the end of the year. Dean had tried to play it off like he was cool with it earlier that day, when he texted Cas asking him to hang out and Cas broke the news. Cas had been studying so much lately, Dean hardly saw him for two weeks. They skipped three Tuesday movie nights in a row, and Dean had been just as eager as any of the students for exams to end, just so he could have his friend back.

He was kind of pissed when Meg beat him to the punch. He guessed he should have called dibs earlier, but it was stupid to think Cas would want to hang out with him over his girlfriend even if Dean had gotten to him first.

Dean spent most of the night in front of the TV, flipping through the same twelve channels and letting the frozen chicken strips he’d heated up for dinner go cold. His eyes kept flickering to his phone, kind of hoping that Crowley would text him for a delivery. So far, bupkis.

He needed to get out. Maybe he’d go get a drink, play some pool. Maybe he’d get lucky tonight.

Just when he was about to get up and put on his jacket, there was a knock at the door.

Dean swiveled around on the couch to look at the door like it had just insulted his mother. There was another knock. Warily and quietly, he got up.

Cas was standing in the stairwell, his image warped by the fish-eyed glass of the peephole. Suddenly, Dean’s heart was a hummingbird. What the hell was Cas doing there? Didn’t he have a date? Did he bail?

Cas knocked again, making Dean jump in the closeness, and he realized he’d been staring at Cas for too long through the door. He undid the lock and opened it. “Cas? Aren’t you supposed—?”

“I was driving through the area,” Cas said over him, without preamble. He seemed a little jittery, or as jittery as someone like Cas could be. Dean was only going off of how quickly his words tumbled out of his mouth. He was probably still over-caffeinated from studying. “Meg lives on the other side of town and after I dropped her off, I thought I’d stop in and say hello. I—It was a mistake. You’re probably busy. I shouldn’t drop in uninvited.”

He turned around like he was about to leave, but Dean grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him forward. “Dude, relax. I’m not busy.”

“Oh.” Cas settled, dropping his shoulders. He nodded. “Good.”

“Do you wanna come in?”

Cas nodded again, and Dean stepped out of the way to let him inside. As Dean locked the door, Cas shrugged out of his trench coat and hung it up.

“So, uh. How was your date?” Dean asked, rubbing at the back of his neck. He didn’t know why he’d asked that. He really didn’t want to hear the details.

“We had pasta,” Cas supplied. Dean wasn’t sure if that was a positive review or a negative one.

“Oh. Cool. _Lady and the Tramp_ style?” He forced a sideways grin at his own joke, even through the image of Cas and Meg sucking in a string of spaghetti together before making out flashing through his mind. Cas squinted at him and it was adorable.

“I . . .?”

Dean couldn’t look at that expression without his stomach going into knots, so he walked away from the door, landing halfway to the kitchen. He didn’t know why he’d picked that spot.

They’d been having moments like these recently—not exactly awkward, per se, but Dean often found he really had no idea what to do with his hands when Cas was around. And Cas seemed to get a little tongue-tied and stiff sometimes, and Dean didn’t know why.

Probably because Dean was acting so weird and Cas didn’t know what to do with that. Because Dean was so gone on him it was stupid, plus the gnawing secret about Raphael that Dean was keeping from him on top of all that.

“Kinda early to end a date,” he said. “You didn’t skimp out on dessert, did you?”

“No,” Cas said. He seemed a little run down. His shoulders were slumped as he walked towards the couch and plopped himself down on one of the cushions. Dean noticed the redness under his eyes. He couldn’t tell if Cas looked tired or dejected, and he wondered if he had anything to do with his date. For a fleeting second, Dean thought maybe Meg had broken it off with him, and that’s why the date was cut short. It was selfish, and he stomped it down with both boots before the thought reached his chest.

“I’ve been up late studying for finals and writing papers for . . . the entirety of my recent memory. I was too tired to do anything else, so I drove her home,” Cas explained, and it turned out the feeling had gotten hold of Dean’s heart after all, because his pulse stuttered in disappointment.

But even if the darkest hour, hope springs eternal, because another thought took root in Dean. “Okay. So why’d you come here?”

Cas looked at him, still worn out, but at the same time, sated, happy that it was over. It was just more proof that he was in the wrong major, but Dean decided not to press the issue that night. “I thought maybe we could watch a movie. I know it isn’t Tuesday, but perhaps we could break that rule just this once.”

“Pretty adventurous of you.”

Cas shrugged.

“Yeah, okay,” Dean agreed, trying not to let it show that his blood was doing a victory lap throughout his body. Cas ditched Meg for him. “Got anything in mind?” Probably not, considering Cas had never seen a damn movie in his life.

Sure enough, Cas shook his head. “I thought maybe we could find another compromise.”

Dean had just the thing. “I downloaded a movie a few nights ago and haven’t gotten around to watching it yet. Figured you might like it. It’s based on _Pride and Prejudice_ but there’s zombies in it. That sound good?”

Cas frowned at him. “ _Pride and Prejudice_ isn’t historical, Dean. It’s fiction.”

Oh. Dean tried to cover his blush. He could have sworn it was based off a true story. Whatever—Jane Austen wasn’t his bag. All her books were too much of a slow burn for his liking. Plus, there wasn’t enough action!

“Well, _yeah_ ,” he said, attempting to play it off, his voice going up into a frequency that only dogs could hear. “But, you know. Close enough. It’s got all those fancy Victorian British people and shit. That’s the history part for you, and the zombie part’s for me.”

Cas didn’t answer for a long pause. He only stared at Dean in that intense, spellbinding way of his. Dean instantly felt simultaneously calmer and more rattled than ever under those eyes. But there was something different in the look too, maybe just because he was tired. It was softer, and there was the ghost of a smile on Cas’ lips.

“Okay, Dean,” he said gently. “Let’s watch the Victorian zombie movie.”

“Coming right up.” It was probably a lame movie, and he’d only downloaded it because he wanted to find something for him and Cas to watch together. But he wasn’t going to admit that.

“Where’s Sam?” Cas asked before Dean could make a move. He peered around the room, squinting, as if Sam was in one of the corners and he just hadn’t seen him yet.

Sam. Right. Dean almost forgot that they had the place to themselves. The reminder made his skin buzz. It was a miracle it didn’t show in his voice when he said, “Eileen’s for the night.”

“We’re alone, then?”

Fuck. Was it him, or did Cas’ voice sound more gravely than usual? Even for being tired. 

Dean tried to recover by telling himself that Cas had no clue what he’d just implied. “Yeah. Pretty sweet, right? We won’t have to listen to him bitch about plot holes or whatever.”

“Yes,” Cas agreed, deadpan. “Sweet.” He settled against the cushions, looking like he might drift off at any second. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d dozed off on that couch, but usually he waited until the movie was at least halfway through.

“Awesome,” Dean said. He started walking backwards and pointed a thumb over his shoulder. “Let me just go get my laptop.”

Dean couldn’t get to his bedroom quick enough. There was something about sleepy Cas that made him think all bets were off. Like he could wrap his arm around Cas’ shoulders and cuddle with him on the couch. Like they could make out and wouldn’t change absolutely everything the next day.

Once in his room, he got himself under control with a few shallow breaths. He picked up his laptop from the bed and went back to the living room.

“Oh- _kay_ , who’s ready for some—?”

Cas was asleep. His chin was folded against his chest and his breaths even and peaceful. He felt his expression shift into something tender as he looked at Cas. He couldn’t make a habit of wearing his heart on his sleeve like that, but he figured it was okay since Cas couldn’t see him.

Dean closed his laptop gently, too wrapped up in the sight of him to be annoyed. They could watch the movie another time. Cas had a hard few weeks. He needed rest. But he probably wouldn’t even be able to drive home without nodding off behind the wheel, and Dean wasn’t going to have that on his conscious.

Setting his computer on the coffee table, he leaned over Cas and gently shook his shoulder. One hand rested feather-light on Cas’ thigh. “Cas. C’mon. Bed time.”

Cas blinked awake blearily. He sniffed and grunted.

“Come on. You’ll throw your back out if you sleep on that couch all night. Trust me, I know.”

Cas nodded, like he didn’t quite know what he was agreeing to but really didn’t care, like he trusted Dean not to steer him wrong. He stood up and followed Dean into his bedroom. Dean went to his drawers and rummaged through them for an extra pair of pajamas but, by the time he found some that might fit Cas, Cas already had his shoes and jeans off. They were in a pile on the floor at the end of the mattress. He was halfway done with unbuttoning his shirt, and Dean stared dumbly.

When the shirt was open, he shrugged out of it, showing toned arms and a solid torso. He had a freckle right above his nipple, and Dean didn't know what he was expected to do with that information. The shirt was added to the pile and he crawled into bed. He was snoring in less than a minute.

Dean realized he was gaping.

As if to save face, he quickly clamped his jaw closed and shook his head out. It was no use. The image of boxers-only Cas was ingrained in his mind, and his dick was telling him that they’d _definitely_ be jacking off to that at some point later on.

Slowly, he took off his jeans, too, and pulled on a faded, holey t-shirt that he only used for bed anymore. There was a beat of uncertainty before he said _screw it_ and lifted the covers to get into bed.

It took an iron will to stay on his side of the bed, near the edge of the mattress, with plenty of space between them. It wasn’t like he could exactly fall off the bed. The floor was right there. So he figured he’d be okay.

But he was uncomfortable. He liked to spread out—and yet, here he was: on his back, staring up at the ceiling, with his hands folded tight against his chest. Like a dumbass. His heart was beating so fast, he thought he’d never get to sleep.

This was stupid. He’d shared a bed with Cas before. But that was _Cas_ ’ bed, not his. And Cas definitely hadn’t been practically naked. But he told himself it was fine. Nothing drastic had happened then, and it wasn’t going to now.

He had to keep telling himself that, through the soft sounds Cas made in his sleep and the rustling of blankets every time he moved; through Cas rolling over into his space and pressing his cold feet into Dean’s ankles; through the sigh he gave at finding the warmth.

Yeah, this was totally fine.

///

He must have fallen asleep at some point during the night (either that, or his heart had given out from the stress and Cas had to call an ambulance to resuscitate him, which would have been all kinds of embarrassing), because the next thing he knew, he was blinking awake to the sun streaming in from the window. He guessed he’d forgotten to close the curtains before heading to bed.

He realized he was still on his back, and probably hadn’t moved the whole night. He groaned at how stiff his body felt, and, stretching, he rubbed at his eyes with his knuckles in attempt to wake up.

It didn’t take long for the events of last night to come flooding back in. As soon as they did, his heart started hammering again. He quickly looked over at Cas to gauge if he was still asleep. He wasn’t. He was met with open blue eyes staring at him, and whatever race Dean’s pulse was running abruptly stopped.

Cas didn’t look away in any kind of shame for having been caught watching Dean sleep. His ear was still against his pillow, and he was lying on his side, and his long lashes swept down slowly as he blinked. Dean wondered how long he’d been doing that. It was a little creepy, but Dean was too busy trying not to be mortified to care about that.

He probably didn’t look very hot as he slept. He probably drooled.

He wiped at his mouth with the back of his wrist before he could stop himself, and he thought, _way to go, asshole_. _He totally wants to sleep with you now, sexy._

“Mm—morning,” he said, throat croaky.

“Good morning, Dean.” He sounded like he’d been awake for a while. “We didn’t watch the Victorian zombies.”

A lazy smile spread across Dean’s face, and he breathed out a laugh. He turned onto his side so he wouldn’t have to strain his neck to look at Cas. “It’s cool. You needed sleep,” he said. “We can watch it over breakfast. I think we have stuff for pancakes.”

“I like pancakes.”

“And coffee,” Dean promised.

Cas grumbled a little, letting his eyes slip closed again. He nuzzled his head a little more into his pillow and it made Dean’s heart seize up. “I believe I’ve had more of that than I can stomach for a while.”

Dean didn’t know that was possible for Cas. He asked, “Speaking of, how’s it feel to officially be a senior?”

Still closing his eyes, Cas lifted his brows, like he’d only just realized it. “Strangely the same,” he answered after a moment of consideration. He blinked at Dean. “Like I need twenty hours of sleep.”

Dean snorted. “You and me both.”

“I feel better now, though. Thank you for letting me sleep here.”

“Y—Yeah, man. Any time.”

At some point, Dean’s eyes had flickered down to Cas’ lips, watching them form his words. They looked dry, and he wondered what that might feel like dragging against his skin. His own lips were suddenly moist, and he belatedly realized he must have wet them with his tongue.

 _Shit_.

He forced himself to look away from Cas’ mouth and back up to his eyes. That was a mistake, because there was something in them—something that wasn’t there before. He was looking intently at Dean and, for a second, Dean thought he’d freaked him out.

And then, out of nowhere, Cas brought his hand up from under the covers, reached forward, and grazed Dean’s cheek with his fingers. Dean had the urge to grab it by the wrist and kiss every one of his knuckles. The touch was so gentle and fleeting, and it was over in a second. He brought back a loose eyelash that he’d plucked from Dean’s face. It was pinched between his fingers.

“Make a wish,” he said with such intense sincerity that he must have believed, whatever Dean wished for, it was guaranteed to come true.

Dean’s throat clicked when he swallowed as he remembered the night in the Impala before winter break. He made a wish. He blew onto Cas’ fingers, and the eyelash flew away, lost forever.

Cas’ pupils swallowed up his irises as he searched Dean’s face like he was making a few wishes of his own.

It’d be so easy just to lean in. Just to fill the gap between them . . .

And Dean did. Slowly. Cas followed. Slowly.

His nose bumped against Dean’s, and Dean tilted his head to brush back. He felt Cas’ breath skirting across his cheek. He closed his eyes, parted his lips. His whole brain was screaming, _holy shit, this is it_.

Their lips touched gently at first, and it could barely be called a kiss. Dean gave Cas plenty of time to realize what he was doing and draw away if he wanted to. Only, he didn’t. And Dean couldn’t stand the wait anymore.

He pushed in closer, and he thought he might have felt Cas do the same at the same moment, but he couldn’t be sure. His breath came out in a soft gasp that was swallowed up by Cas’ mouth moving against his. It was frantic and desperate and Dean was completely swept up in the moment. In the way Cas’ teeth scraped against his, the roughness of Cas’ stubble against his chin and the surprising velvety feel of his constantly chapped lips, in the way Cas’ tongue explored the inside of Dean’s mouth in quick, brushstroke licks.

Cas’ hands were fisting at the front of his t-shirt, Dean realized, and his own fingers were wrapped up in Cas perpetually sex-rumpled hair. And the heat in Dean’s lower abdomen was determined to give a reason for that now.

He dragged his lips away from Cas’ mouth to line his chin and jaw. When he kissed over Cas’ pulse point, he could feel how quickly his heart was pounding, and Dean didn’t want that to stop. He sucked on that spot, eager to know just how wild he was driving Cas; and it brought a rush throughout him when Cas started to pant, his broken voice eking out, “ _Dean_.”

After that, Cas dipped his chin down and recaptured Dean’s lips, kissing him open-mouthed. He caught Dean’s lower lip between his teeth and pulled gently, and then his hands were on Dean’s chest, pushing him onto his back. Cas put one leg over him and sat on top of him, and there was no way he didn’t feel Dean, half hard, filling out under him. There was the sturdy weight of him, thighs spread on Dean’s hipbones. Dean wanted to grind up into him, to see if Cas would press back down.

He sat up, holding Cas by the sides and kissing his bare chest. Cas’ fingers were combing through his scalp as he let out gentle aborted groans and— _fuck_ —growls. And Dean couldn’t believe this was happening. He kept waiting to wake up.

Cas’ grip tightened on his hair and he tugged Dean back to look at him—shoulders heaving in staggered breaths, lips parted and bruised red, hair a mess and eyes drinking Dean in. God, he was gorgeous.

He picked Dean’s shirt up from the bottom hem and lifted it up, and Dean obediently held up his arms so Cas could take it off completely and toss it to the side. When it was gone, Cas stared down at Dean’s torso, his hand reaching up tentatively and hovering over his pecs like he was suddenly shy about touching him. Dean gave a wry smirk and grabbed his wrist, pulling it forward to spread Cas’ palm on his chest.

And Cas— _Jesus_ —he smiled. Wide and gummy. And then it faded just as quickly as it came, and his eyes latched back onto Dean’s, and he leaned in to crash their mouths together again. Dean leaned back, pulling Cas on top of him.

He rolled them onto their sides, blood thundering as he felt that Cas was already hard in his boxers, too. The soft, heady sounds coming from the back of his throat only served as more encouragement, so Dean gave in to the pulsing between his legs. He grabbed Cas by the hips and pushed them flush together. He gave an exploratory roll of his body against Cas. His mind just about blanked with pleasure when Cas chased the motion.

And he did it again, and again, until they worked into a rhythm. Cas wrapped one hand around the back of Dean’s neck, fingers digging into the tense muscles there, and broke away from Dean’s mouth to breathe. His hands were moving again, scrambling all along Dean’s bare skin like he wanted to touch all of it at once. Dean ran his fingers along Cas’ chest, thumbing at his nipple after his touch snagged on it. His lungs were burning, but he couldn’t get any air. The only thing he could breathe in was Cas. He buried his face into Cas’ throat, feeling the vibration when Cas let out a high, short _ah_ sound against his hair.

And then Cas moved one hand down and grabbed a fistful of Dean’s ass, then yanked him in even closer. The sound he made when he did was dark, possessive even—rough and hot and, _fuck_. Dean just about blacked out when Cas grabbed Dean’s leg and lifted it over his hip so their dicks dragged together through their boxers.

And Dean put his hand to Cas’ neck to press his thumb against it, applying just enough pressure to feel Cas grunt beneath it.

And, “Fuck, Cas—so good.”

And he wanted more. He wanted to feel Cas in his mouth. He wanted Cas’ hand wrapped around him like he’d imagined so many times.

And then he heard keys jangling in the front door’s lock.

“Dean! Sam! You boys home?”

The voice came from outside, muffled only slightly by the walls. It was followed by the sound of the door closing.

Dean froze, then gasped and drew away. So did Cas. They both sat up.

“Dad?” he whispered, voice ragged. He looked over at Cas, blinking like an idiot for a long pause as he realized what had just happened. All the color had drained from Cas’ face, and his expression was horror-stricken and wide-eyed as he stared back; and it was more than likely that he instantly regretted everything.

Dean felt a pit open up in his stomach, but he didn’t have time to process that right now. Dad was home. Dad was home and there was a half naked boy in Dean’s bed whom he was just dry humping.

And Dad was home. He was actually home.

“Shit,” he hissed. And then, “Dad! Hang on!”

He fought to untangle himself from the blankets and jumped out of bed, found his shirt and pulled on a pair of sweatpants to better hide the bulge in his boxers until he could cool down. He was determined not to look back at Cas as he left the room. Going down the hall, he did his best to straighten out his clothes, tame his hair, and stand up a little straighter.

John was in the living room, still standing in the doorway, jacket on and duffel bag slung over his shoulder. A warm smile spread across his tired features when he saw Dean. For a second, Dean thought he was still asleep and this was a dream.

“Dean,” John said, happiness in his fatigued voice.

Dean felt his cheeks crack, and he let out a small whoop of laughter. “Holy crap, Dad.” Satisfied that his body was back under his control, he strode across the room to hug John, to take in the weary scent of the road and his spiced aftershave. Dad was home. Dean forgot about their debts and meager bank account. He forgot about Crowley and the shady business he was wrapped up in. All of it was okay now. Dad was home and it would all work itself out.

When the hug broke, Dean beamed at his father. “I didn’t know you were coming home.”

“Wanted it to be a surprise. Where’s Sammy?”

“At his girlfriend’s. We told you about Eileen, right? Here, do you want me to take that?” He gestured to the duffel bag, and John gratefully let it slide off his shoulder. He handed it to Dean, who slung it over his own back so he could carry it to John’s room.

As John took off his jacket and hung it on one of the hooks, Dean let his gaze light over him. He still couldn’t believe he was standing there after so many months. He’d been pissed about that before, hadn’t he? Secretly. It was easy to forgive his father now that he was looking at him.

“I was just about to make breakfast. You hungry? Want a coffee or anything?”

John turned back around. “Cup of Joe sounds good. But I think I need a couple hours of shuteye first.” Dean could imagine. He’d probably been driving all through the night. It was a little disappointing, though, to have John lock himself in his room to sleep right after he got back; but it was okay. He was there and that’s all that mattered. Dean kept the smile on his face from faltering.

“No, yeah, totally.”

John looked like he was about to say something else, but then his gaze flicked up and landed over Dean’s shoulder. He seemed confused, and Dean turned around to figure out what he was looking at.

Cas was hovering in the entrance to the hallway, thankfully fully dressed, but his hair was still messy and his eyes were still sharp and blown out.

Crap. Dean almost forgot he was there.

He looked back at his dad, who was eyeing Cas up and down unsurely, and Dean suddenly got a rush of fear at what John must think. He had to nip that in the bud right away, before John thought they were anything but friends and that, before he’d come home, they were a fraction of a second away from doing something Dean had wanted to do for months.

“Oh, hey, Dad, this is Cas,” he said, pushing as much cheer into his tone as he could. He gestured for Cas, still standing awkwardly a few feet away, to come closer. “He’s a buddy of mine.”

As he approached, Cas shot Dean a sideways scowl that made Dean’s stomach sour, and he didn’t even want to try to decipher what it meant. “Hello, Mr. Winchester. I’ve heard much about you,” Cas said pleasantly, and held out his hand.

John took it and said, “Hey. Can’t really say the same.” He sounded a little accusatory, and Dean tried hard not to flush. “You a new friend?”

“Fairly.”

When it became apparent that Cas wasn’t going to explain further, Dean provided, “He goes to Sammy’s school. He’s a junior—well. Senior now, right, Cas?”

Cas didn’t return his smile. He went into his robot mode. “Yes.”

Dean hated this. He should have never tried to kiss Cas. He just ruined everything. He had to fix this, to find some way of letting Cas know it was an accident and it wouldn’t happen again.

“If you’ll excuse me, I should be going,” Cas then told them. He sidestepped them and got his trench coat from the hook.

“Uh, yeah,” Dean said, rubbing at the back of his neck. “See you around, dude.”

Was he laying it on too thick? He didn’t know if it was for his father’s sake, Cas’, or his own.

“Yes. I’ll see you.” He turned his attention back to John. “It was nice to meet you, Mr. Winchester.” With one last glower in Dean’s direction, he was out the door.

John called after him, “Yeah, you too!” When they were alone, he looked at Dean for an explanation. Dean had none.

He changed the subject instead. “So, why don’t you get settled in, huh? Take a hot shower, a nap. I’ll call Sammy, let him know you got in.”

“Yeah, sounds good,” John said, seemingly fully recovered from his collision with Castiel Novak. “We should have a family dinner tonight. I was thinking your mother’s old Winchester Surprise.”

Dean snorted at the memory. It ached a little, but in a good way. “I’ll go to the store while you’re asleep.”

John nodded. He clapped Dean on the shoulder as he passed, and headed right for the bathroom. A second later, Dean heard the water running.

He let his face fall and his body sag. He let out a deep breath, half in relief that John hadn’t caught him and half in fear that he’d just driven Cas away for good. He pulled at his mouth, trying to figure out what to do.

Nothing.

What the hell could he do?

He took the duffel to John’s room, opening the door for the first time in months. It was a little dingy and dusty inside, but nothing opening the curtains wouldn’t fix. He dropped the bag on the floor next to the bed. His eyes found the nightstand, and he remembered something.

He poked his head into the hallway. The bathroom door was still shut, and the water was still on. He rushed into his room, ignoring the spot in the bed where Cas had slept. It was probably still warm with body heat. It probably still smelled like him.

He crouched down, lifted up the mattress, and pulled out John’s leather-bound journal. Silently, he moved back down the hall and into his father’s room. He opened the drawer of the nightstand and set the journal inside, where he’d found it. He slid the drawer closed as quietly as he could, paranoid that he’d turn around and John would be in the doorway.

He wasn’t. Dean was in the clear.

He tried to breathe normally.

///

Castiel didn't know what he was feeling—but, whatever emotions were tumbling through him, there was a lot of them.

He gripped hard on the steel banister of the stairwell outside of Dean's apartment and stumbled down the first flight to the landing. Leaning his back against the wall, dented and scarred from various pieces of furniture hitting against it over the years, he attempted to catch his breath, and to process what the hell had just happened.

He'd kissed Dean. Dean had kissed him. They’d done significantly more than that. And he could still feel Dean's lips on his, his breath filling up his lungs, the way his body rocked against him. Dean’s hands on him. His kisses had been tender and reverent, passionate and exhilarating. And Castiel was ruined now. No one else would do. If he ever kissed anyone else, touched anyone else, in his life again, they would be compared to Dean Winchester.

It was horrible. Castiel had never felt such a strange mixture of hope and joy, rejection and sadness and anger and—and arousal.

And it had all been too fleeting, because Dean didn't mean for it to happen. He didn't want it. He'd made that profusely clear after the fact. It caused embarrassment to snake in Castiel's gut, and fury to simmer under his skin. Because why had Dean done it, then? Was it just because Castiel was there, the nearest warm body that Dean had found himself lying in bed with? And did Castiel take advantage of that fact?

Or did he know? Did he know how Castiel felt and he just wanted to see how far he could get, only to change his mind quickly after?

It was humiliating.

And it was the best thing Castiel had ever experienced.

And it was over. Castiel probably couldn't even show is face around Dean for a while. Or ever again, depending on if this embarrassment ever faded. Dean would likely not want to see him again, anyway.

He tilted his head back against the wall and gulped in a few bouts of air to steady himself. His eyes strayed back up to the Winchesters' front door—still closed—and he wanted it to open. He wanted Dean to rush after him and start kissing him again, and to invite him back inside.

And he wanted to go back in time before any of this happened.

Mostly, he willed himself to stop thinking about it. He focused on regulating his heartbeat and evening out his breath, on relaxing his muscles. He had to disassociate from these feelings. He picked himself off the wall and remembered to stand straight. Shoulders squared. Chest out. Chin high. Like a good little soldier.

He told himself that he was Novak, and Novaks don't let their emotions get the better of them. They don't let themselves be embarrassed. They don't get rejected.

But Novak men also didn’t kiss boys.

He pushed that line of thinking to the side, and forced himself not to look back at Dean's door before starting down the stairs.

///

It wasn’t like Dean was actively avoiding Cas. They just hadn’t gotten the chance to hang out for the rest of the week. With John being home, Dean was busy. He had work at the garage and, ever since he turned twenty-one, he’d been picking up a few weeknight shifts at Harvelle’s. He had to grocery shop and cook for a third person, too, and it wasn’t like he could just throw a frozen pizza into the oven and call it a day. John had been on the road for months; Dean thought they could all do with some home cooked meals.

Besides, he had to be home any chance he could with both Sam and John around, just in case he had to defuse any potential bombs that might start World War III if set off. And it wasn’t like he could just invite Cas over while John was there, because sooner or later Dad would figure out he was a Novak and Dean would rather put off dealing with that until a much later date.

That is, of course, if Cas even wanted to talk to him ever again. He seemed pretty pissed the last time they saw each other, and Dean tried really hard not to think about why. But that wasn’t very easy. Days later, he could still feel the press of Cas’ lips against his like a ghost haunting its grave. He could feel Cas’ hands tugging his hair, and the rhythm and roll of his body as he pitched his hips into Dean. He remembered the low, ragged sounds Cas made and, when he closed his eyes for longer than two seconds, he could see Cas looking down at him, cheeks flushed and lips parted, with hungry eyes.

Dean thought of him every night when he went to bed, and he’d taken to sleeping on one side of the mattress, as if to leave room for Cas. His scent had faded from the pillows, but every now and again Dean thought he caught a whiff of something that reminded him of Cas, and he really didn’t want to put them in the wash just yet.

All week, Dean hadn’t texted him once, and Cas didn’t try to contact him, either. With every day that went by, Dean’s anxiety over the matter increased until it was all he could think about. What if Cas really didn’t want to see him anymore? What if he ruined their whole friendship because he couldn’t keep it in his pants?

But, shit. Cas had kissed him back. Cas had _smiled_. Dean didn’t know what the hell to make of any of this.

By the time Saturday rolled around, KU’s spring semester was officially over. Exams were done, and most of the students had already cleared out for summer break. The place would be a ghost town until the next semester started up. Even Charlie and Gilda had taken off to California for a week. But, for those who remained the weekend before heading back to their hometowns, there was a party celebrating the end of the school year at one of the sororities.

Sam was going, and so was Eileen, who would soon be headed back east to her aunt’s house. He called Dean earlier that day to say Cas and Balthazar were going, too. And Dean tried not to think about Cas reaching out to Sam instead of him.

They pregamed at Cas’ apartment before heading over to the party. It was pretty fun at first. They played beer pong on the coffee table—which was a little difficult to do since it was so low to the floor and they had to play kneeling down. And Dean found out he could drink any of them under the table during a shots competition. (Except maybe Balthazar, who got close to beating him.)

As always, Cas was a pretty sloppy drunk, but it was a little more so than usual. Three drinks in and his face was already flushed, his hair was sticking to his forehead with sweat, and he was smiling more than Dean had ever seen. He also kept telling really lame jokes with a grave expression and flat voice, which was normal but not usually so many times in a row.

At first, he kept his distance, and his eyes kept snapping away whenever Dean built up the nerve to look at him. Every time, it made Dean’s gut hollow out like someone had spooned out his organs and dumped them onto his boots.

But, as the night went on, Cas’ concept of personal space seemed to decrease. It was limited on a normal day but this was on a whole new level. Whenever he said anything, he would lean in close to Dean’s ear and say it in a whisper, like it was a secret, his hand sliding up Dean’s chest and his chin practically resting on Dean’s shoulder. Whenever he looked at Dean, his eyes were assessing, like he was planning out a strategy, and sometimes his tongue would dart out to wet his lips. When he passed by, his hand would graze across the small of Dean’s back, or slide down his arm. It made Dean’s skin bump sensitively every time, and he couldn’t help but notice that Cas wasn’t getting that close to anyone else.

Not that Dean was complaining. It just made it really hard not to try to think about grabbing him by the front of his shirt and kissing him, especially because Dean was a little buzzed and off-balanced himself. But he thought, maybe, Cas wasn’t mad at him, after all. Maybe it was just all in his head and everything was normal.

Maybe . . . Maybe it was better than normal. Hell, maybe Cas wanted to kiss him again, too.

And then Meg and her friends showed up, and the bubble-light sensation in Dean’s limbs turned sluggish and weighted. He quickly went from being a happy drunk to a surly one, as he watched Meg lean in and whisper to Cas, Meg’s hand touching his back and chest, Meg run her fingers down his arm. He watched Cas grin at her. The flashy new diamond tennis bracelet Meg had been sporting since early February hadn’t been lost on Dean, either.

Sometimes, when Dean was pretending not to look, he thought he saw Meg’s gaze flash over to him.

He was probably just seeing things. Still, the whole situation was nauseating.

It got even worse when they were walking to the party and Sam jogged up to Dean’s side. “Hey, you okay?” he asked under his voice so the rest of the chattering pack they were with couldn’t hear.

“Fine,” Dean said shortly, trying to brush him off.

Sam gave him a look that said he didn’t buy it. “You sure? Because you don’t seem fine.”

Dean’s eyes were fixed on the front of the group, on Cas and Meg’s entwined hands as they walked.

“I said, I’m fine, Sam.”

He gave up after that, which was lucky because Dean probably would have clocked him if he hadn’t.

The party was in full swing by the time they arrived. House music blasted from inside the two-floor building, and there were flashing multicolored lights waving through a couple of the downstairs windows. The rest of the house was dark, but Dean could see silhouettes roaming around, densely packed and gyrating as they danced. A few people were sequestered in groups on the sloped front lawn or on the upstairs balcony, escaping the heat inside with red Solo cups in hand as they laughed together.

Balthazar knew the girl at the door, so their group was let in easily, and they instantly joined the seething throng of bodies squeezing past each other, holding on to each other, feeling each other up, standing awkwardly to the side, or grinding against each other on the makeshift dance floor. It was so dark inside and the multicolored strobe lights made every movement around them choppy and happen in slow motion. Dean thought he lost his group the second they walked in.

But then he saw Cas, a few people ahead of him in the crowd, swivel around. He squinted as he searched for something. The pinpricks of light outlined his profile—strong chin and angular nose and perfect lips—and cast his skin in a wash of color. His gaze landed on Dean and stayed there. A grin started in his eyes and spread across his cheeks.

It all happened in slow motion.

Dean felt himself smiling back, but it wasn’t a friendly _look how much fun this is, I’m so excited_ kind of smile. It was a small one—one he felt in his chest as viscerally as he felt the bass line pumping through the speakers. God, Cas was beautiful.

It took him a second to realize Cas was calling him. He couldn’t hear him over the music, but he saw the way Cas’ lips formed his name. He snapped himself out of it and pushed through the masses towards him. Meg was still at his side, swaying slightly in rhythm with the beat. Some of her friends were hovering around, and Balthazar was there, too, but he was already chatting someone up. Dean had lost track of Sam and Eileen, but he was sure they were fine.

“We’re going to find something to drink,” Cas shouted into his ear, putting his hand on Dean’s ribs and having to lean in way too close again. Even so, Dean could hardly hear him, but he could feel his breath heat up his ear.

Dean nodded, pushing an easy expression onto his face. He put his hand on Cas’ shoulder so he wouldn’t lose him and followed him further into the house. People were bumping into him on every side, and it wasn’t hard to get lost in that. In the charged air around them, electric and thumping. In the nameless, faceless crowd. In the sweet stench of sweat and alcohol that permeated the world. In the feel of Cas’ tendons under his shirt as Dean gripped him just a little tighter.

Cas was following Meg. She was tugging him along by the hand.

Eventually, they reached the table at the back wall that was littered with empty, overturned beer bottles, a sticky substance, and a bowl of punch. Meg took two cups from the stack on the table and ladled the jungle juice into them. She handed one to Cas, who handed it to Dean, and then she had to pour a third. The rush of satisfaction that gave Dean cannot be described.

Dean looked into his cup. He couldn’t make out what color the liquid was, but he had a creeping suspicion it was pink. He turned his nose up at it. It smelled too sweet for his liking.

Meg downed hers in one go, and laughed as Cas tried to do the same. Some of it spilled out and dribbled down his front. She put two fingers on the bottom of the upturned cup, tipping it back further to encourage him to keep chugging. Dean frowned as he watched Cas’ throat work, and saw the glee in Meg’s eyes.

When Cas was done, Meg grabbed his arm and pulled him onto the dance floor. Cas stumbled after her, his head whipping around to find Dean. There was a lost, doe-eyed expression about him and, for a second, Dean thought he saw Cas reach out towards him, but his arm quickly fell back to his side. He let himself get pulled away, and soon they were lost.

Damn the color and the sweetness. Dean drank up, and poured himself another cup of it. It actually wasn’t too bad, but it didn’t really taste like alcohol.

He guessed that meant there was a shit ton of alcohol in it.

A girl came up to the table to pour herself a drink, too. She had dark skin and her hair was an organized mess of tight curls. She smiled when she caught Dean’s eye, and he smiled back—because what the hell? When he asked her what her name was, she said it was Cassie, because of course it was. At least, that’s what he heard. Maybe he was just projecting.

They ended up dancing together. Dean pretended he forgot about Cas.

Maybe an hour later—it was hard to pay attention to the time, and he was way too drunk at that point to care—Cassie vanished into the crowd, and he decided to cool off a little. He stepped into the hallway, which was dense with people in its own right, but at least they were all standing still. They lined the walls, standing close and face-to-face with drinks in their hands as they talked.

It was there, in the dim light of the hall, that Dean realized he was drunker than he’d thought. Each step was off-center and he couldn’t feel his face.

A door opened up about halfway down the hall, and a familiar shaggy head of hair popped out.

“Sam!” Dean called. By some miracle, Sam heard him.

He came out of the door and half-jogged towards Dean, apologizing when he bumped into someone. Apologizing a _lot_. “Sorry! No, no—my fault! I’m really sorry!”

Great, so both of them were wasted. Perfect.

“Dude, I thought you were supposed to be DD,” Dean said when Sam got closer, realizing that Sam had said the exact same thing at the exact same time.

“ _Me_?” Dean gaped, affronted. “When have _I_ ever been DD?”

Sam’s eyes went big and innocent, and he lifted both shoulders up in a shrug. Dean rolled his eyes.

“Whatever, we’ll sober up,” Sam shouted into his face over the background noise. “We’re all downstairs! It’s quieter! Come on!”

Sam didn’t wait for an answer before grabbing Dean by the sleeve and pulling him towards the door. It led to a dark wooden stairwell to the basement, and it was a relief when Sam shut the door to block out the music. Dean could still feel the same rhythm that had been playing for what felt like five hours in his shoes, but at least it was easier to talk. It was a lot cooler, too.

“Why didn’t you tell me you guys were down here?” Dean asked, realizing his throat was sore from shouting, as he followed Sam downstairs. As they descended, the ripe smell of pot grew and grew until they were in a cloud of it. It broke through the haze in Dean’s head and made his senses a little less numb.

“Couldn’t find you,” Sam said. “I was just going up to look for you again, but I guess you found me. Hey, where were you, anyway?”

Dean wasn’t interested in talking about the girl he’d been dancing with. He was more interested in smoking. “Partying, Sam. We’re at a party.”

The basement was mostly concrete, with piping and a water heater against the walls and insulation uncovered on the ceiling. But there was a little set up, too. A foosball table was in one corner, and an air hockey table in another. There was a couch, where Eileen, Balthazar, and someone Dean had never seen before were sitting. A few more people were on the rug around the glass coffee table, with a bong in the middle. Someone took a hit off it and let the smoke waft upwards.

And then, on the armchair, was Cas. Meg was in his lap, arms around his neck and legs kicking off the side of the chair, basically trying to suck the skin off his neck. And he looked like he was enjoying it.

It was like a bucket of ice water was dropped on Dean, and he was pretty sure he was good to go as DD that very second. He wished his thoughts were still a step behind him, he wished his consciousness still felt like it was on a totally different plane of existence than his body. But he was very aware of where he was and what he was looking at.

All he could think was, _that guy’s tongue was in my mouth a few days ago_.

He thought he would throw up. At least it would be easy to blame the alcohol, but he had a reputation to uphold. He swallowed the bile threatening to rise up his throat.

Cas’ eyes fluttered open. They were hazy, and didn’t sharpen back to their usual intensity. But apparently he wasn’t completely blacked out because he happily shouted, “Dean!”

Meg extracted herself, blinking down at him angrily for a moment before it dawned on her that her boyfriend wasn’t just calling out Dean’s name while she kissed him for no reason, as great as that would have been from Dean’s perspective. She turned around to look at him.

Dean couldn’t help the smug smirk that quirked his lips.

“Hey, Cas,” he said. “You gettin’ high now, too?” He almost regretted not being there sooner. He wanted to watch Cas take what would probably be his first bong hit.

Cas grinned back lazily and shook his head. “I don’ do drugs, _Dean_ ,” he slurred. It was adorable.

Meg grabbed him by the chin and turned his head back to her. “Hey, angel, we were in the middle of something,” she said before crashing their lips together. Cas’ eyes grew in shock, and he let out a loud hum; but then he eased into the kiss, and Dean wished the music were still blasting so he didn’t have to hear the grunts coming out of his throat.

And that was just _it_. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t sit there and watch Cas and Meg swap spit. He had to get out—find a bar far away from here or find someone to stick his dick into. Anything to get that image out of his head.

Without a word, like a fucking coward, he turned around and went back upstairs. He heard Sam call after him, worried—once, twice. Then, he heard Cas, his voice much smaller. He didn’t want to look back. He didn’t want to see the self-satisfied look on Meg’s face as she watched him go and then pulled Cas back in.

He slammed the basement door wide open and stalked down the hall as quickly as he could without looking like he was making a scene. He shoved his way through the crowd and out the door, onto the grass. He was outside and the air was fresh and summer was on the breeze, but his lungs refused to pull anything in.

He stumbled down the walkway to the side of the street and tried his best to breathe. He couldn’t quite grasp the air long enough to keep it in his lungs.

“Dean?”

Abruptly, he spun around. But he already knew who he’d find. He knew that voice. He knew that voice when it said his name. No one else said his name like Cas did, like he was made to say it and Dean was put on this goddamn earth to hear him do so.

“Are you alright?” He looked sober now, but his cheeks were still pink and his lips bruised and glistening. His pupils were two black holes surrounded by a rim of impossible blue. His shirt was rumpled and sticking out of his pants. His hair was messy. Dean had done none of those things, and never would.

And yet, Cas was walking towards him, reaching his hand up as if to catch Dean if he fell. Dean ripped himself away before Cas’ fingertips even made contact.

“I’m _fine_! Keep your damn hands off me!” he barked, and he had to admit Sam was right. He didn’t sound fine.

A look of surprise flashed over Cas’ face, and he slowly brought his arm back down. Then, he just looked hurt. “Dean?” he asked again.

"Just go back inside, Cas."

Of course, he didn't listen. When did Cas ever listen?

"Dean. What happened?"

"Nothing! God . . ."

He turned around again, facing the street. It must have rained at some point, because the tar was slick, and there was still some humidity in the sharp scent of the earth. He kept looking ahead. He didn't need Cas to see the lie written on his face. He didn't need Cas staring into him and reading him like a goddamn book.

"Did I do something wrong?" Cas asked. Damn it. Dean was halfway to a _yes_ and halfway to a _no_.

It was lucky when he instead said, "I just don't belong in there, okay?" He spun back around when he said it, gesturing wildly at the house as if it symbolized every rich kid with a future in the world.

Like it symbolized Cas, who was like fucking top shelf liquor. Way too out of Dean’s reach.

He couldn't look at Cas, but he saw him stand straighter.

"What are you talking ab—?"

"I don't!" Dean shouted. His thoughts were swimming and he wasn't even making sense to himself. "Maybe you and Sammy do, but not me—with your fancy college parties and classes and girlfriend." The word made his stomach slosh and his head woozy. He thought he stumbled off balance for a second.

"My—? Dean," Cas glared at him severely. He charged a step forward and matched Dean's tone. "You’re the one who enjoys these parties! The only reason I'm here is because of you!"

Dean scoffed and dragged his hand down his mouth. It was funny, really. "Yeah, seems like it."

"What?"

Normally, Dean would have brushed it off, because any response he had lined up was a little too close to the truth for comfort. But the alcohol and anger made him bold. "Well, I haven't exactly seen a lot of you tonight, that's what."

Something like steel passed over Cas' eyes, and the rest of him tensed with calm. His voice was steady, too, low and rumbling beneath the music coming from the house. "You're the one who disappeared, Dean."

"Oh, I disappeared, huh?" He dipped his head in mocking confusion and took a few steps closer into Cas' space.

"Yes."

"You're the one who left me by that punch bowl to go dance with Meg for an _hour_!"

"An hour? It was one song, Dean! I tried to find you afterward but you were gone. I thought you might have waited."

"That what I'm supposed to do, Cas? Just stand around with my thumb up my ass waiting for you?"

Cas blinked, finally, and his eyes flickered down to the grass. "I looked for you," he said quietly after a pause.

Dean swallowed hard, the image of Cas and Meg making out on that chair flashing in his mind. Jealousy burned hot in his gut.

If only his dad saw him now: drunk off pink fruit punch and on the verge of tears because the boy he liked didn't like him back. Pathetic. Dean wanted to kick his own ass before John got the chance.

"Well, I wasn’t in Meg’s pants, I can tell you that."

Cas brought his gaze, sharp and seething, back up. His lips were pressed tightly together, and he looked absolutely miserable. Good. If it were even a fraction of how shitty Dean felt, he'd get the message.

Dean rolled his eyes upward, trying to force back the stinging behind them. He wouldn't cry. He wouldn't.

There was a small group of people huddled together on the lawn. Dean hadn't noticed them before, but they were staring at him and Cas, watching the drama unfold. Dean directed his ire towards them. "What? You enjoyin’ the show?"

They didn't answer. They quickly turned away, knowing they'd been caught, and scurried inside. When they were gone, Dean realized that Cas hadn't let them distract him. He kept his eyes steadily on Dean's face. They might as well be burning a hole in his skin.

Dean squared his jaw and forced himself to challenge Cas' gaze.

He liked to think he won, because Cas spoke first—slowly, questioningly. "Why is this making you so angry?"

Okay, maybe he didn't win.

He felt like he was standing in the middle of oncoming traffic—nowhere to move, no option but to watch the glaring headlights speed towards him until— _smack_!

"It doesn’t," he said lamely. Cas didn't buy it.

He had to get out of there—for good. He had to walk away before Cas really did break his heart, which he would. Because, clearly, he wasn't interested. He had Meg, and they were from the same world. Dean was barely from the same galaxy. He was just some dropout from the bad side of town, and hell, he could even add drug smuggler to the list now. All Dean would ever do is hold him back.

"This just isn't working," he said, wanting to rip it off like a Band-Aid. It'd be better if Cas moved on with his life and forgot all about him. It’d be better for both of them. Because, best-case scenario, Cas liked him back and they couldn’t be together, anyway. The odds were stacked against them from the jump.

No. It was better to forget all about each other.

What the hell was he doing pining after a Novak, anyway?

Three lines formed between Cas' brows and, as always, Dean wanted to lift up his thumb and smooth them out. "What isn't?"

"Us." He had to remind himself that there was no _us_. "I mean, you and me. This friendship." He gestured between the two of them, still only about a foot apart, to drive the point home.

"You don't want to be my friend anymore?" Cas asked, and he sounded like a hurt little kid on the playground.

And no, Dean did not want to be his friend anymore. He wanted a hell of a lot more than that.

He hated the way his voice shook when he answered, "Yeah, well, my bad for thinking I could hang with the country club kids, right?"

“You think that’s what this is about?” Cas asked, sounding furious again. He stepped even closer and bared his teeth. “That’s your excuse, Dean? Because you can’t look past your self-righteous, holier-than-thou worldview.”

“That’s real good coming from you, choir boy,” Dean shot back.

“It’s true,” Cas spat, slurring slightly. He was still shitfaced, after all. “You do this constantly—looking down on others. Me, my family, the people I associate with—even Sam.”

That was ridiculous. “Don’t drag Sam into this.”

“See, you just did it!” His eyes went wide, like Dean had just proven his point, before they narrowed back into slits. “You treat him like a child. Like he isn’t capable of taking care of himself or making his own decisions because—‘cause—why, Dean? You don’t think you’re lesser than us.” He poked Dean hard in the center of his chest. “You think you’re _better_.”

Dean’s expression darkened. He didn’t think he was better than them. He knew he wasn’t. He was painfully aware of it.

And yet, Cas' words hit a little too close to home.

“Then, why are you even still here, if I’m that much of a dick?”

Cas’ expression shifted, and he searched Dean’s face for a long time. “You’re,” he groaned, and shook his head as if to muster his thoughts, “infuriating.” He made another sound, still angry, and swayed a little on his feet. “Why are you—what are you asking of me, Dean? Tell me what you want.”

He couldn't do this. He couldn't stand there and watch whatever it was behind Cas' eyes crumbling. Because it wasn't for the same reason Dean's chest was constricting so tightly he couldn’t breathe.

He tried to walk away, but Cas grabbed his arm tightly and pulled him back. His fingers had such a vice grip on him, Dean could feel it through his jacket and he thought Cas might leave a mark. And, for a while, all they did was stare each other down.

And then Dean heard Cas' name being called from the door. Meg was standing on the front stoop, her arms folded tightly over his chest. She looked ready to start swinging if she had to, but there was no point. She already came out as the undefeated heavyweight champion.

"Better go, Cas," Dean whispered past the lump in his throat. He tried to swallow it down. He hoped, foolishly, Cas wouldn't let go of him.

God, he was so stupid.

"If that's what you want, Dean."

The lines on Cas' face slackened into something more neutral, and his fingers fell away from Dean's arm.

Dean was moving before Cas' touch had fully left him.

He didn't stop, didn't allow a single thought in is head, for three whole blocks. It was through sheer determination that he made it half that far, because his knees started to give out under him and he was gasping as if he'd just taken a punch to the gut. His mind was anything but blank now—screaming at him for being an asshole, telling him to go back and tell Cas the truth, whispering to him that they were both better off apart. He fisted the posts of someone's fence for balance and puked on their lawn, because he was just that classy. It burned his throat and tasted like acid and fruity punch, and he wished he could fully blame it for the tears prickling in his eyes.

///

For a while—it felt like decades—Castiel wanted to go after Dean. But he found he couldn’t move. His limbs were too heavy, and he felt like he would have to lift his legs with both arms to be able to walk.

He thought maybe it was the alcohol. He didn’t know what his limit was, but he knew he was past it. His thoughts were scattered and everything was hot and clammy and _hilarious_. Was he laughing? That was unlike him. But he heard laughter, and he didn’t know who else it could be coming from. No one else was around.

Especially not Dean.

Because Dean didn’t want anything to do with him. Dean didn’t even want to be his friend anymore, just when Castiel had convinced himself that he could one day be okay with being nothing more than Dean’s friend.

He should have seen this coming. It had been glaringly obvious, really. Dean hated the Novaks. Castiel was a Novak. It was only a matter of time until that bias caught up to them and it seemed, here and now, on the dewy lawn of a sorority party on the last day of Junior year, was that time.

All because Castiel was a Novak and Dean Winchester was bullheaded and unrelentingly stubborn in his beliefs, unmovable and indignant. And Castiel loved him so much he thought he’d be sick.

Or maybe that part really was the alcohol.

Either way, the fact remained: Dean had walked out on Castiel’s life, and Castiel had to move on. Just like when his father left, or when Gabriel left, or when Anna left. And they were his family. He’d only known Dean for a few months. And yet, his absence was already a gaping maw in Castiel’s chest and he didn’t know if he could ever fill it.

He was so foolish. He shouldn’t have let himself fall in love with Dean. He should have shut himself down at the first sign of feeling, like he always did. It was better not to get close—to anyone. It was better to forget that Dean had shown him a different way.

“Castiel?”

Meg was at his elbow, regarding him with curiosity and concern.

Meg liked him. Why couldn’t Dean like him the way Meg liked him? Why couldn’t Dean like him at all?

“What the hell was his problem? Did you two get in a fight?” she asked, and Castiel thought the answers to both questions were rather obvious. He was the problem, and yes.

“It’s nothing,” he told her, as if saying the words would make it true. When he brought his eyes down to her, she was staring uncertainly down the street, her brows furrowed into a frown.

Haltingly, she said, “Listen, I’m kinda beat. What do you say we get out of here?”

Momentarily, he couldn’t recall what they’d been doing, or even where _here_ was. But then he took in the state of her—tousled hair and smeared off lipstick—and it all came flooding back to him. He looked over his shoulder at the house, the party music still blaring out of the windows. He didn’t want to go home. He didn’t want to feel the iron fist squeezing inside his chest, or to feel cold and rejected and alone.

He didn’t want to feel a damn thing.

“No,” he heard himself say from somewhere under water.

She raised a thin brow at him. “No?” she repeated.

“I’m going back inside.” He spun around, and even when he was facing the opposite direction, the world kept whirling.

“Whoa, easy there,” Meg laughed lightly, grabbing him by the arm to keep him upright. “Seriously, Castiel, I think you’ve had enough.” She walked her fingers up the front of his shirt. “Bedy-bye time.”

He rattled his head to steady himself, which had the opposite effect than desired, and pulled out of her hold. When he took a step forward, his legs were still heavy and lethargic, but he was nothing if not determined. “I’m fine. You can go if you wish.” He made himself stand straighter and walked back up to the house.

Behind him, he heard her mutter, “Yeah, right.”

The music seemed even louder than before when they went back through the doors, and there were less bodies ebbing like ocean waves on the dance floor. Castiel bee-lined to the drinks table, where the jungle juice sat half-empty at the bottom of the punch bowl. Overturned Solo cups littered the table.

He picked up the ladle and scooped some liquid into a discarded cup, tipped it back, let the now soured, lukewarm liquid travel down his throat.

When he leveled his chin again, Meg was looking between him and the cup with wide eyes and an unreadable expression.

“What?” he challenged over the music.

She thinned her lips and shook her head, and he tried not to interpret it as concern.

He poured himself another drink.

///

It took Dean over two hours to walk home, because he didn’t have money for the bus and he knew he was too drunk to drive the Impala. He wasn't going to wreck another thing he loved because of his stupid decisions.

Of course, that meant he'd have to pick her up at Cas' tomorrow, but that was a problem for another time.

He was exhausted and parched, legs like rubber and mouth like cotton, as he stumbled into the living room at a quarter past two in the morning. He went right for the fridge, intent on a glass of water until the exact second he saw Sam sitting at the breakfast table.

And he looked pissed.

"Dean," he sounded relieved, but mostly angry. Either way, he jumped up from his chair. "Where the hell have you been? I called you like, a million times!"

Dean shoved his hand into his pocket and brought out his phone. There were about a dozen missed calls and texts from Sam. None from Cas, he couldn't help but notice.

Fuck water. He needed a beer.

He went to the fridge and pulled one out, ripping off the top with his ring. It felt cool going down his throat, but it didn't make him feel any better. The smell alone made him want to vomit again.

"Dean," Sam sounded worried now. Just worried. Dean preferred pissed.

"How'd you get home?" he changed the subject, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. Sam wouldn't fall for the tactic for long, but it was worth a shot.

"My friend, Andy, was at the party. He drove me and Eileen." There was something distracted in his voice, like he wasn't really listening to what he was saying, nor did he care. That was fair, because neither was Dean.

"Dean," Sam said again, shuffling his stance a little. "What happened to you? You disappeared and no one could find you the whole night."

"I didn't disappear. I was dancing with some chick."

"Okay, but that doesn't explain why you stormed out all of a sudden." He upturned his palm towards the door, like Dean might provide an example by storming out again.

And, yeah, he just might.

He chugged the rest of his beer instead. Sam watched on in horror.

"Dean, you're seriously scaring me."

He felt some air in his chest and beat at it with his fist to loosen the sensation. "Dad home?"

"Yeah, he's asleep."

"Good, then keep your fucking voice down." He started out of the kitchen, but not before he saw Sam's expression shift into the bitch face.

" _No_!" His voice was purposefully louder then, and he stalked after Dean.

Dean turned on him in the entrance to the kitchen, so that he was in the living room and Sam was still in the threshold. "Just drop it, Sam," he warned.

Sam stood taller, reminding Dean that he already had half a foot on him. "No. No way, Dean. Not until you help me understand what's going on with you. I mean, one minute, you're fine, and then you go down to the basement and you flip out! I don't—."

He stopped abruptly, and something slow dawned in his eyes.

"Holy shit," he whispered.

Dean rolled his eyes and turned away again. Sam followed him into the living room. "It was Cas and Meg, wasn't it? You're _jealous_."

There was no point denying it, but it was a kneejerk reaction. "I'm not jealous. This's got nothing to do with that."

"Yes, it does." Fuck. Why was Sam so smart? "You like him. I knew it!"

Fuck.

"Dean. Why didn't you tell me?"

He wished he hadn't finished his beer that quickly. It was a rookie mistake, really.

He grimaced at the wall, his mouth going jagged and his nose scrunching. He wanted to stay angry—tried so hard—but it all broke down.

"Don't tell Dad," he begged, his voice cracking.

Sam's face changed again, into something much more compassionate. His voice went gentle. "Come on, man, I'm not—I'm not gonna tell Dad."

He sat down on the couch, and Dean fell onto the cushion next to him. It felt good to be off his feet. His bones were jelly, and he let out a heavy breath.

"I didn't tell him when you told me you're . . ." his eyes shifted to the hall, where their father's door was shut. "You know," he finished, just to be safe. Dean was grateful. He stayed quiet.

Then, Sam asked, "Does Cas know?"

Just the name alone made Dean's heart stutter. "Know what? That I'm . . . you know?"

"No, that you like him?"

Dean snorted. After tonight, the answer was probably _yes_. He hadn't exactly been subtle. Then again, Cas needed everything spelled out for him when it came to this stuff. "No," Dean decided, hoping it was true. If he did know, Cas probably wouldn't want anything to do with him.

Hell, he probably didn't want anything to do with him now.

Dean remembered what he'd said to Cas and his stomach went sour.

"And I'm not gonna tell him." He shot Sam a pointed look. "And neither are you. It wouldn't work between us, anyway." The feeling in his gut deepened and twisted, and he was supposed to have a few more hours until he was hungover. Nothing about this situation was fair.

"Why not?" Sam asked, ever the optimist.

Dean looked around the room. Where to start?

"Well, for one, he's got Meg," he started. "And what, you think his asshole-religious family wouldn't send him to bible camp the second they found out he's dating a guy? Not to mention what Dad would say. Even if he did find out I'm—you know . . . he'd want me to end up with a girl."

Sam puffed up a little. "Who cares what Dad wants? And who cares what Cas' family wants? That doesn't matter."

"Alright, tough guy."

Of course, it mattered. That was family.

"I mean it, Dean," Sam said. His eyes were glistening now, and Dean felt his own burning. "The only thing that matters is—."

"What?" Dean cut him off. "What I want?" He remembered Cas' words. _If that's what you want, Dean._ "What Cas wants?" He felt some of his strength rising back up, anger cresting like a wave. "Newsflash, Sam, they're not the same thing. Cas doesn't want me! So it really doesn't matter what I want because as long as he doesn't love me back—!"

Sam's eyes snapped up. "Love?"

Dean sucked in a tripping breath, and let it out in one long deflation. _Shit_. That was the first time he said that out loud. He was pretty sure it was the first time he even thought the word—ever. But it came out of him easily, naturally. And, yeah, love.

Dean was head-over-heels, ass-over-face in love with Cas.

It was the damnedest thing.

He looked down, mind suddenly calm, heart suddenly racing. "Yeah," he heard himself say on a hitched breath. He shook his head miserably. "Ain't that a bitch?"

Sam was silent. He obviously didn't know what to say—but what could he? There wasn't anything that would help. It was what it was.

"I'm beat," Dean said after a minute, standing up. He smelled like stale alcohol and sweat, and he probably needed to shower, but he just wanted to be unconscious. "Get some sleep, Sammy."

Sam didn't look up to meet his eyes. He nodded solemnly. "Yeah. You, uh—you, too."

Dean clapped him on the shoulder as he passed, and went for his room. He realized his phone was still clutched in his hand. He looked down at it.

Still nothing from Cas.

///

The rest of the night was a blur. He danced some more, somehow ended up with a handle of vodka in his hand at one point, and vaguely recalled Balthazar’s laughter as he took a hit of God-knows-what from someone’s Juul. He thought it may have made him cough and sputter, but he didn’t feel any of it.

Meg was there, but he couldn’t remember if she had a drink in her hand at any point of the night. She didn’t leave his side. He might have tugged her in by the waist and kissed her more, relishing the way her lips flowered against his in a sloppy, drunken kiss, even if it didn’t mean anything, no matter how he wished it did. He’d tried so hard to jam her into his heart like the wrong piece of a puzzle. The edges just wouldn’t align.

Regardless, he thought this was what being drunk should be—airy and pleasurable. Not the dismal and wretched feelings Dean inflicted on him.

Because Dean was gone. Dean didn’t want him. Castiel never really had him in the first place.

And then he didn’t feel very pleasant at all. The room turned too quickly, its axis just off center, and it was far too hot and stuffy. He needed air. The claustrophobia rose up from the pit of his stomach, burning his throat. And it happened so quickly and he was going to be sick.

He didn’t remember how he ended up on the filthy bathroom floor of the sorority house. The music was still pumping, but it caused an aching pulse in his temple. His cheek was pressed against the cool porcelain of the toilet, and there was a ring of grime around the bottom of the base. The grout in between the tiles was faded and sunken. Every breath he drew in was sticky and putrid.

Someone was rubbing circles on his back.

A familiar voice said, “Okay, I think you’re done. Come on, Clarence. Let’s get your ass to bed.” He let himself be hauled up by the armpits.

He remembered stumbling down the street, his shoes slapping loudly against the asphalt. There was a breeze on his cheeks, chilled by the sweat that had soaked through his shirt. It sobered him slightly, but he was tired, and he wanted to curl up in the middle of the street and go to sleep.

The apartment was a mess when they arrived. There were still red plastic cups on the coffee table, some of them toppled over. There were still dishes and empty beer bottles in the sink. The stone cold remnants of the mini hot dogs and microwave pizza were on the counters. The place smelled of beer.

They bypassed the living room, Meg tugging him by the wrist towards his room. Once there, she shrugged out of her leather jacket, and he took that as his cue to remove his coat, too. It didn’t come off at first, and he tried to wrestle himself out of it, but Meg quickly materialized at his side and pulled the sleeves off.

He let her lead him towards the bed, and she lowered him to sit on the edge. He groaned, and toppled over sideways onto the pillow. He was never drinking again.

“Yeah, trust me, it’ll be a lot less pretty in the morning,” Meg teased and she took off his shoes, and he didn’t appreciate the humor at all. The mattress dipped when she sat down next to him. “You need to puke again?”

He shook his head into the pillow, even though he wasn’t so sure it was true.

He couldn’t be sure how much time went by, but things were becoming more lucid, and the numbness was fading away like a vignette around old film. The aches and pains were coming more and more into focus.

“You wanna tell me what the hell that was all about?” she asked. Her voice was low, barely a whisper, but it sounded way too loud. He could still feel the vibrations from the music in his legs.

He thought of Dean.

“No,” he said, muffling the words into his pillow.

“Castiel,” she said, her voice suddenly firm. It was ridiculous. She had no right to ask after his affairs. Why was she even there? He sat up too quickly; the room danced around him woozily until he blinked it into focus. He tried to narrow his eyes to match his anger.

“Why do you care?”

She rolled her eyes. “Fine, if you don’t want my help, maybe I’ll just go.” She stood up, but didn’t make another move.

“Fine. Go.” Everyone else did. Why shouldn’t she?

“Fine. Have fun drowning in your own vomit.”

She stomped towards the bedroom door, and he instantly felt remorse. She was only trying to help him. He didn’t know what to say to bring her back. He’d ruined yet another relationship that night.

But, as it turned out, he didn’t need to say anything. She lingered by the door, her hand curled around the frame. She dropped her shoulders, relenting, and turned back around. “You know, you’re a stubborn bastard. But maybe you just grew on me, Castiel. Ever consider that?”

He blinked at her, at a loss. He heard the meaning beneath her words, and remembered the tender care she’d taken in helping him get home. The way she hadn’t left him all night.

Perhaps he’d read her wrong.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, feeling cold. His spine rattled. His body felt weighted. “I didn’t assume . . .”

She crossed her arms over her chest impatiently. “Spit it out.”

He looked down at his upturned hands on his lap. He’d bruised them for Dean in the past. He thought Meg’s only use for them had been to touch her. Most people he knew were only interested in them when they were offering something material.

“That you cared.”

Meg remained still for a while. Castiel’s eyes flickered to the clock. It was nearing 4 AM.

“What the hell did he say to you?” she asked, and that might have been the first time he heard empathy in her voice.

He snorted, and rubbed at his eye, belatedly realizing it was a habit he’d picked up from Dean. “It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t want to be my friend anymore.”

“What?”

He sighed, dropping his hands again. “He says we’re too different. It’s my fault.”

“ _What_?” She sounded outraged that time.

He furrowed his brow, not understanding which part of the statement was confusing her. He glanced up at her, noticing her face had turned flinty. “He’s right,” he told her, because what he was saying didn’t warrant such a reaction. Dean wasn’t the one at fault. “I shouldn’t have . . .” He shook his head, weighing his words.

He couldn’t tell her what had happened a week ago. He couldn’t tell her about the kiss. But he knew that was the reason Dean left him. He couldn’t stand the sight of Castiel anymore.

“I destroyed everything,” was all he could eke out, his throat constricting around the words.

She was silent again, glaring at him like he had three heads. And then, she scoffed. It was low and bitter. She said the last thing he expected to hear: “Bullshit. This isn’t your fault, Castiel.”

He blinked again. Now it was his turn to ask, “What?”

She charged back into the room until she was standing right in front of him. “Look at me.” He didn’t want to. She put two fingers under his chin and lifted it up. “Dean’s a dick.”

Castiel’s gut reaction was to argue.

She continued before he could, “Don’t blame yourself because he isn’t man enough to own up to his own issues. That shit’s not on you, got it? He’s a selfish, pig-headed ass and you need better friends. I mean, really, Castiel, what the hell has he ever done for you? You bend over backwards for him and all he does is kick you like a puppy when you’re down. He wants to break up? I say, fine. Good riddance. But he’s in for one rude as hell awakening when he realizes how much he missed out on. Oh, and, just saying, if you want me to kick him in the jewels for you, I’d be more than happy to.”

Castiel realized his mouth was open, distracted. He had no idea how to respond to any of that. Her words, the fierceness of her expression and the snarl in her tone—they all warmed him significantly. He realized, then, that he wanted to kiss her.

But he didn’t. He remained sitting on the bed until her eyes softened and she dropped her arm to her side.

“So, what d’you say you take a nap and I’ll find something for you to put in your stomach that doesn’t have a surgeon general warning on the packaging, mkay?”

He nodded, pliant. She helped him lay down slowly on the bed without it making a rush of blood shoot to his head, and she turned out the lights on her way out the door. She closed it gently, and it barely clicked.

The next thing he knew, the sun was pouring through the window, and his head was pounding dully like the hollow inside of a drum. Sensation came back to him, heated and lazy, until he felt alive enough to blearily crack one eye open. The clock radio came into focus. 6:42 AM. He had to be at church in a few hours, but he was bone tired. Still, he wasn’t certain he could fall back asleep if he tried.

He needed to hydrate. His mouth felt like there was a cloth shoved into it.

With a great effort, he lifted himself off his pillow, feeling his stomach slosh with nausea as he did, but he didn’t throw up. He ran his fingers through his hair, and it felt tangled and sweaty. He thought back to how he’d gotten there, and realized most of his memories from the night prior were missing. Shame flushed through him along with horror over what he might have done. He must have drank the equivalent of an entire liquor store.

And Meg. He’d been a burden to her. He should call her and apologize, but he needed to get himself in better shape first.

He stood up slowly, and shuffled to the door. Once in the living room, he was hit by the sterile scent of cleaning products, and blinked at the room as a whole. All the food and bottles and pans had been cleared away, and the sticky alcohol wiped off the flat surfaces. The only messy part about the room was the balled up bed sheet and flattened pillow on the couch.

His eyes scanned towards the kitchen, where he found Meg standing in front of the coffee maker in a pair of black socks and what looked like one of his button-up shirts.

She was still there. It was morning and she hadn’t left. He didn’t understand.

She must have sensed him, because she looked up and offered a wry smirk. “Morning, angel. Hope you don’t mind I stole some of your clothes. How you feeling? Bright and sunny, I’m guessing.”

He knew she was only joking, but his stomach turned at the reminder of his physical state. But that was nothing compared to his mental turmoil. “Ashamed,” he answered, unable to look at her directly. “I acted abhorrently. I apologize for creating such an issue for you.”

She laughed lightly, and took the mug out from under the drip once it was done. But, instead of sipping it, she walked over and offered him the drink. He pressed his lips together, but took it from her. The scent alone made him feel more coherent.

“Don’t apologize. We all do it.”

“I’ve never done it before,” he assured her and she walked back to the kitchen to make herself another cup. He followed her at a distance. “And I don’t mean to again.”

“Oh, yay,” she sang, reaching up high into the cabinet to grab the k-cups. The tail of her shirt rode up the back of her thigh just a little, and he blinked away cautiously. “Because, I gotta tell you, you’re one sappy drunk. Good thing you have someone as awesome as me looking out for you.” She winked playfully, easing some of the tension he felt.

She was right, he realized. He was grateful for her.

He brought the coffee to his lips and breathed in the steam, but didn’t take a sip. He didn’t want to add a burnt tongue to his lists of discomforts. But it did wake him up some, and the tight sickness in his gut was loosening.

With the coffee percolating again, she turned towards him, one hand resting on the counter and the other on her hip.

He took her in. Despite her prickled and thorny edges, he remembered how gentle she had been with him. “You stayed,” he pointed out.

“Yeah. Didn’t want you to—.”

“Drown in my own vomit?” he supplied.

She closed her mouth. And then, “You remember that, huh?”

“I don’t remember much of last night,” he said. “But I remember you. Thank you.”

She shrugged. “Whatever. Shut up. It’s cool.”

She was trying to stow away her emotions. It wasn’t callousness. Why hadn’t he been able to see that in her before? After all, he knew the tactic well.

“Anyway, I threw some of your clothes in the wash. Figured you’d wanna get the smell out of them.”

He stared at her, awed by her generosity. She’s cleaned up, cared for him, made him coffee, and now this? It was too much. His chest tightened under the weight of it all.

She’d stayed.

No one ever stayed with him.

“You might wanna shower off before you have to meet your family for—.”

He ignored the rest of what she was saying and placed his mug on the breakfast table. Swiftly, he walked up to her and put his hands under her jaw. He kissed her. He wasn’t sure how else to thank her for all she’d done for him, for all she’d trusted him with over the last few months despite his lack of reciprocation, for everything.

When the kiss broke, she gazed up at him with darkened eyes. It occurred to him that they were completely the wrong color, but he wouldn’t dwell on that. He just wouldn’t.

“Don’t tell me you’re already frisky,” she joked, the corner of her mouth pulling up into a one-sided smirk.

He leaned back in and felt it on his lips, and he felt it fade. She kissed him back, wrapping her arms around his waist as the coffee drip hissed and sputtered and stopped. It went forgotten.

He crowded into her, pressing her back against the edge of the counter.

And, that time, when she reached up to take his shirt off, he let her.

///

Dean woke up to bright sunlight and a drum line pounding in his skull like it was the fucking Macy's Day Parade. He had a face full of pillow and was lying on his stomach, which was probably the reason he wanted to puke. He looked at the clock—11:42 AM—and pushed himself quickly up by the hands, heart stopping as he thought he was late for work.

Then he remembered it was Sunday, and the garage was closed. Thank god. He had to work at Harvelle's but that wasn't until later that night. He was in the clear for now.

And he needed grease, even though the thought of food alone turned his stomach. He also needed a ton of water, a shower, and to brush his teeth until his tongue stopped sticking to the roof of his mouth. But first, he needed to piss. Bad.

He lifted himself out of bed, struggling with the sheets around his legs as he did, and his foot connected with the bucket they used to mop the floor. There were still dredges of dirty water in its corners but, thankfully, no vomit. Sam must have put it there last night after Dean fell asleep. It was a small gesture, but it made gratitude bloom in Dean’s chest.

He raised a good kid.

Still in a fog, Dean scratched at his stomach and moved to the bathroom to do everything but brush his teeth. He'd do that after he ate something. He did take a few gulps of water straight from the sink, though. By the time he walked back into the hall, steam following him out, he felt a little bit more like a person.

Of course, he felt a lot more like a piece of shit on the bottom of someone's boot. He thought back to the previous night, about the pain on Cas' face because of the things he said. He should have kept his mouth shut. He should have just been okay with Cas' friendship and nothing more, because then at least Cas was in his life.

He had to find a way to apologize. He had no idea how he was going to do that.

He knew he had to think fast, though, because the car was still at Cas' place. Maybe he could avoid him. If he hurried, he could probably get it and drive off before Cas got home from his family meeting. Or he could wait and get the Impala when Cas was at the library.

God, he was such a coward.

When he got to the living room, John and Sam were already inside. John was in his chair, pointing the remote at the TV as he flipped through the channels. Static and sound bites burst out as the channels changed. Sam was curled up on the couch, temple resting on his fist, as he stared ahead with disinterest.

They both looked up when Dean came in.

"Morning," he said, his voice rough from disuse.

Sam was still looking at him like he was the most unfortunate thing in the world. It was the same expression he always wore when that Sarah McLachlan infomercial about the sick dogs or whatever came on TV.

"Afternoon," John corrected. "Fun night?"

"Uh, yeah," Dean said, rubbing at the back on his neck. He made the mistake of briefly looking at Sam. "Real fun." He escaped to the kitchen and poured himself a tall glass of water from the Brita. He drained it, cool and refreshing and the sweet nectar of the damn gods, and poured himself another. He drank it slower this time, and it was still in his hand as he went back out to the living room.

"What'd you get up to last night?" Dean asked, perching himself on the arm of the couch opposite Sam, before John could ask any more questions.

He put the remote down. "Oh, you know. The usual. Drinks with Caleb and some of the other boys."

Dean drummed his fingernails on the side of his glass, not knowing how to keep the conversation going.

It turned out he didn't need to, because John cleared his throat in that way that suggested he had something important to say and they ought to listen. Both Dean and Sam reflexively gave him their attention, waiting as he turned off the TV, leaned forward, and clasped his hands between his knees.

"So, boys. I've been meaning to talk to you about something," he started.

If Dean didn't feel like he'd be sick before, now he really did. He shared a look with Sam, equally ambivalent, before bringing his eyes forward again.

"I have another delivery coming up. A cross-country thing. Savannah to Portland. I'm gonna have to leave early tomorrow morning."

Dean dropped his shoulders. He couldn't say he hadn't expected it, but he was still disappointed.

Dad was leaving again.

"Thing is, when it's over, I'm gonna have to leave the truck at the drop off site," he went on. "So, I was thinking . . . Maybe you boys drive out to meet me and we take a little trip together."

Both of them were quiet, too surprised to talk. There was a kind of electric anticipation between them all.

"What?" Dean heard himself ask, convinced he'd made it up.

An easy smile spread across John's scruffy cheeks. His eyes twinkled. "Yeah. You know, a road trip. Like old times—except, this time, instead of moving to a new town, we'll be tourists. I think it'd be fun."

Dean and Sam shared another look, this one exuberant. Their smiles mirrored their father's.

"Really? How long?" Sam asked, as if trying to work out the logistics of it.

John shrugged out his hands. "You tell me. I figured you boys could pick the places we visit."

Sam straightened out, like an excited puppy. "Can we go to the Hoover Dam?"

Dean groaned. There was no way Sam was turning this vacation into a field trip. "No way! Man, no one wants to see that crap. We should go to Vegas, gamble at the Bellagio—oh, and we gotta go to the House of Blues in Mass."

"Why do you get to pick?" Sam whined.

"Because I'm the oldest," Dean shot back. "That means I'll be alive for less time than you, so I'll have less time to go where I want."

Sam let out a loud scoff. "That's stupid!"

"No it isn't. The Hoover Dam is stupid. Dad, back me up."

John was looking between them with a fondness that Dean so rarely saw, and it was nice to bask in it. He forgot about everything else for a minute. "Not a chance," John said. "I'm just a passenger here. But we can go wherever you both want. I figure maybe it'll take a month or so."

Dean deflated. He couldn't take off for a month. There was too much to do, too much tying him down.

And there was Cas.

He didn't want to think about being away from Cas for that long. Cas would forget about him, if he hadn't already.

 _Shit_. Cas shouldn't be a reason. He was just a friend. That was all. And maybe not even that anymore. Friends weren't reason enough to hold you back from opportunities like this.

And maybe a road trip across the lower forty-eight was exactly what Dean needed. It would put some miles between him and Lawrence—him and Cas. Maybe he'd come back and none of this would matter anymore. He'd have a better perspective. He'd convince himself he wasn't so in love it was disgusting.

But the fact remained, there were other responsibilities he couldn't just drop.

"But what about the apartment?" he asked. "And I have work."

John held up a hand to stop him. "I talked to Bobby. He said he'd keep an eye on the place while we were gone, and he said you'd still have your job when you got back. I'm sure Ellen will say the same. I know she loves you boys."

Dean was relieved for that, but he couldn't say the same for Crowley. He doubted Crowley would let him take off for a month—but screw him. That job didn't even offer health insurance, so what the hell?

“Dad,” Sam asked gently, thankfully not a hint of skepticism or argument in his voice for once, “why now?”

John’s smile faltered a little as he looked between them. He rung his hangs a little, fiddling with his wedding band. “Just figured it was a good time,” he said. “What with you out on summer break. And—,” he sighed. “You two are growing up. Sam, you’re already in college. Dean, you’re getting to that age when you’ll be thinking of moving out, starting a family of your own.”

Dean looked off despondently. A family of his own might be nice some day, but he wasn’t sure he’d ever have it. Besides, he had all the family he needed right there.

“Fact is, we probably don’t have much more time together. Might as well make the most of it.” John’s voice was matter-of-fact, but there were lingering hints of sadness in it. Dean had only heard that tone when he talked about Mary. He didn’t ever want his dad to think he’d lose his sons, too.

“Come on, Dad, that’s not true,” Dean told him. “You know we’re not goin’ anywhere.”

Sam looked down at his lap, and Dean actively decided not to read into it.

John gave a little half-nodded. “Maybe,” he considered. “But what do you say we take this trip anyway?” He looked back at Sam and added, “If you think that girlfriend of yours will let you go for that long.”

It made Dean think of Cas again, even though he tried not to.

Sam chuckled under his breath. “Nah, she went back home for the summer.”

“Well, then,” John told him, “maybe we can swing by and see her.”

Sam lit up instantly. “Yeah. Yeah! I’d love that, Dad.”

Sam’s enthusiasm reinvigorated Dean. He had no one tying him down, no reason to stay. This would be good for all three of them. He slapped his knee with his palm and said, “Well, hell, you know I’m in!”

They made plans then. John would leave the next morning for his delivery. It would take him about a week, all told. Sam and Dean would stay behind and take a few days to pack and do anything they needed to before the trip ahead. Then, they’d drive out to meet John in Portland on the following Monday.

By the end of the discussion, Sam already had his laptop out, planning out everything he wanted to see on the trip. Dean was already drafting up a mental list, and he assumed he’d write it down somewhere eventually. But he had things to do first, and that started with getting the Impala from Cas’ place.

Cas. Dean knew he was on the clock now. He should probably talk to him before they took off for their trip. It would be the mature thing to do, and he wouldn’t have to punish himself with guilt the entire vacation, dragging his sorrow across every highway in the US. And he wanted to tell Cas about the trip. It had been his first thought as the giddy anticipation settled in. _I can’t wait to tell Cas about this_.

He wondered if Cas would even notice he was gone.

And he wondered if he could avoid him completely until he and Sam hit the road. He also thought that was a completely reasonable, adult thing to do. Maybe it would all go away if he ignored it, and then came back to Lawrence a few weeks later like nothing had happened.

He weighed his options on the bus ride to Cas’ neighborhood, squeezing and crinkling the plastic water bottle between his hands that he desperately needed in order to rehydrate. His stomach was still sloshing and his muscles were aching, and it got worse the closer he got to campus.

Whatever hopes Dean had of avoiding Cas until his shame was a little more compartmentalized were squashed when, upon getting to the parking lot outside the apartment building, he saw Cas leaning up against the hood of the Impala.

Dean stopped short, his brain fizzling a little as the remaining alcohol poisoning still clogged his system. Cas had his ass against the front side of the car, and his hands were wrapped around the metal on either side of him. His ankles were crossed lazily over each other and he was squinting off to the side, up at the building, with idle interest. The afternoon sun backlit his hair like a brunette-edged halo and touched his tan, stubbled cheeks.

He was fucking glowing, and the glare shining off the black of the Impala didn't help the constricted feeling in Dean's throat at all. He stood there dumbly, staring at the two of them. Stupidly, his mind supplied him with, _that's my baby_ , and not even he could decipher whether he meant the car or Cas.

He wondered if he could jump into the bushes and hide before Cas saw him. But then, as if on cue, the dent he'd fingered into his water bottle popped back up like the traitor it was. With hawk-like reflexes, Cas turned his head towards Dean and latched his sharp gaze onto him.

This is why Dean didn't drink water . . .

Cas straightened his posture into something militaristic—robotic—by pushing back his shoulders and folding his hands behind his back. His eyes stayed fixed on Dean, whose neck was already burning with a shamed blush, as he approached the car.

"How long have you been waiting here?" Dean managed to ask, making his tone as accusatory as possible.

"Thirty-eight minutes," Cas told him plainly, like nothing was weird about it at all.

"Stalker. Shouldn't you be at the library or something?"

Cas tilted his head to the side, regarding Dean like he was an idiot—and, hell, maybe he was right. "The spring semester ended, if you recall. My summer courses don't start up for a week. I did mention that to you previously."

Damn it. Cas had told him that.

"And I'm supposed to remember that? Do I look like your secretary?"

Cas' eyes flickered up and down Dean's body like he was seriously considering the question. He managed to make the act threatening, and Dean wanted to get out of his line of sight ASAP.

He grunted and fished his keys out of his pocket. Walking around to the driver's side, he got into the car. Before he could even start the engine, Cas had climbed into the passenger seat.

"Damn it, Cas, what? What do you want?"

Cas was sitting way too close, like he always did, whether they were in the booth at the diner, on the couch watching a movie, or in the Impala. If he leaned in, he'd practically be in the driver's seat, and he did lean in. Dean swallowed and tried to push back against the door to give himself more space. It didn't work. He could officially add claustrophobia to his growing lists of discomforts for the day.

"I want to know what happened last night," Cas demanded, giving Dean another one of his relentless, X-Ray vision stares. "Why did you get so angry?"

Dean's heart was thundering in his ears, and he was pretty sure Cas could hear it, too. "I was drunk. I—I'm a surly drunk," he said, panicking.

"Did you mean what you said?"

Dean crumpled the plastic bottle between his hands, heart jacking up into his throat. For a second, he thought he'd blacked out and made some kind of stupid love confession, and that's why Cas was so pissed. But then he remembered what he actually said, and the kicked expression that had lined Cas' face. He didn't ever want to see that expression again, much less be the cause of it.

"No," he sighed. All the anger drained out of him.

Cas' jaw softened, and his eyes flickered away. He leaned back out of Dean's personal space and folded his hands loosely onto his lap. "Then why did you say it?"

"I dunno," Dean lied. "I was drunk."

It was a shitty excuse, but Cas seemed to accept it, even if he didn't appear satisfied by it. He was so close to sporting that hurt look again.

"Listen, man, I still wanna be your friend," Dean apologized. "I was bein’ an ass."

Cas nodded. "I'm sorry, too."

Dean blinked. What the hell did Cas have to feel sorry about?

"I . . . regret the things I said," Cas explained, glancing up at him again.

Dean remembered, suddenly, and it only doubled the remorse sloshing in his lower abdomen. "So, I'm not a self-righteous prick?"

"No, you are. I just shouldn't have put it so bluntly."

Dean barked out a laugh, glad that the tension between them had eased. "So, we cool?"

Cas nodded, the beginnings of a smile lighting his lips. "Yes. We're cool."

There was a beat after that, a little awkward. Neither of them knew how to move the conversation forward, and Dean was suddenly acutely aware of how loud he was breathing. He took a swig of water and swished it around his mouth just to have something to do.

"Do you have plans for the rest of the day?" Cas said to break the silence, and Dean didn't know if he had something in mind or if he was just asking to be polite.

Dean swallowed his drink. "Yeah, actually," he said, perking up a little at the prospect of telling Cas about his vacation. "Bringing Baby to the garage for a tune up. Dad's taking me and Sam on a road trip."

Cas didn't seem to expect that, which was fair because, if you told Dean yesterday that he was about to go on vacation like a normal person, he would have laughed in your face. "That sounds like fun. When will you be leaving?"

"A few days. Dad's just got a job to do and then we're gonna meet him on the west coast."

Cas' pleasant expression didn't falter. It was kind of Stepford-y, actually. "So soon?"

"It was kinda last minute." The Winchesters had never been known for being planners, but it didn't matter. Dean was so pumped he could hardly stand it. He could already feel the road under his tires, already picture the endless sky. He needed this. He'd been too restless, and a lot of that was thanks to the feelings he had for the guy currently sitting next to him. "It'll be good to stretch my legs. We're thinking of doing all 48 states. It's gonna be awesome."

"I'm happy for you, Dean," Cas told him sincerely, and Dean was happy that he was happy. And he was a little sad, too, because maybe a little piece of him had hoped Cas would ask him to stay. "I know time with your family means a lot to you, and it's a rarity. You deserve this experience."

Dean blinked. He wanted to laugh. Sometimes Cas just said things . . . Things people weren't supposed to say. And he didn't even know what he was doing.

Cas opened his mouth to say something else, then closed it, seeming to reconsider whatever he was about to say. And then, haltingly, "How long will you be away?"

Dean shrugged, pulse kicking into life again but he tried to hide it. For some reason, a sense of dread passed over him, like this was some kind of moment of truth from which there was no coming back. "I dunno. Dad figures a month, maybe more."

Cas paused, unmoving and unblinking for a long time. Dean realized he was holding his breath, but he didn't want to let it out of his lungs. After what felt like a full ten minutes, Cas turned his head away—towards the windshield, the dashboard, his lap. He squinted ahead, and slightly to the side opposite from where Dean was sitting.

And Dean wanted Cas to ask him to stay.

He'd call the whole thing off if Cas just said the words.

But, instead, Cas said softly, "That sounds like quite the trip."

Dean cleared his throat, beating down his disappointment. He and Cas were friends. You didn't miss an opportunity like this for a friend.

"Yeah, it'll be good."

Cas stayed quiet, and Dean hated the silence. It prompted him to let out a forced laugh and joke, "Don't go having too much fun without me here." The delivery was off, and it fell flat.

"Noted," Cas answered dryly. "But I can't count on having too much fun at all. I'll be busy with my schoolwork and my family, Jack and Claire." He paused. "And my girlfriend."

It was the first time Cas had ever used the word and they both knew it.

Dean couldn't hear his heart beating anymore. It sat like a brick beneath his ribcage, puffing up dust whenever the wind blew by until, eventually, it would crumble and collapse. He thought heartbreak was supposed to happen fast, but it didn't. It took forever.

He took another swig of water, swallowed it.

"So, you guys are puttin' a label on it?"

"I suppose we are."

"Well, that's good." He forced brightness. "Good for you, man. About time. You two have been hanging out a lot more lately."

He took another long gulp, and wished it burned like whiskey.

"Yes," said Cas. "And having sex."

The water forced its way back up Dean's throat and he tried to hold it in, but it spit out in short bursts, wetting his front and sleeve where he brought his hand up in an attempt to stop it. He could feel it in his windpipe, tight and suffocating, and it sure did burn now. For a couple long seconds, all he could do was cough.

When he finally had enough control over himself, he said, voice still thick, "You had sex with Meg?"

He realized that Cas was watching him closely again.

"I did. This morning." He looked back down at his hands, a bashful, modest smile gracing his lips.

Son of a bitch.

Son of a _bitch_!

He remembered Cas telling him that he wouldn’t sleep with someone unless he loved them. That meant he was in love with Meg. It meant, somewhere in the last few months, he’d fallen for her.

So, that was Dean's answer, then, to the constant question between them that, turns out, Cas wasn't even asking.

Another gust of wind went by to put a crack in his clay heart.

"Well, hell, congratulations, buddy. Sealin’ the deal! Proud of you." He clapped Cas on the shoulder, which, at the angle, was a little too close to his chest. Cas swayed slightly upon impact and his smile grew some more, into something brighter and more pleased with himself. And Dean wanted to be sick.

"Thank you."

He hoped Cas wasn't expecting him to ask more about it, because he didn't want to. He didn't even want to think about it—but there it was, the image seared into the forefront of his brain. And there was a big neon sign above it that flashed, _He doesn't want you, you poor sorry son of a bitch_.

Dean couldn't wait to get out of town.

"I should . . ." Cas started, letting himself trail off. "I should let you go. I'm sure you have much to prepare."

Dean worked his throat, hoping he didn't sound like he was fighting back a sob when he said, "Yeah."

Cas swiveled to open the door, the click of the latch sounding through the car. And Dean told himself to stop him, to grab his arm and keep him there and tell him the truth. He had a feeling that, if he let Cas get out of the car, there'd be no hope left in hell for them.

But there was no _them_ , and Dean wasn't that brave.

Cas got out of the car, but didn't shut the door. Instead, he turned back and poked his head inside. "Will I see you before you leave for your trip?"

Dean smiled, despite himself, even though it was a small thing. A little bit of warmth washed over him, and he told himself that it would be enough to just be friends with Cas. As long as Cas was still in his life in some way. He could stow his crap. He could do this.

"You bet."

Cas pressed his lips together in something like a smile, or the memory of one. "Then, I'll see you later."

Dean nodded. "See ya, Cas."

Cas straightened out until his face and shoulders were out of frame and the only thing Dean saw was his buttoned shirt and jeans. He stepped back and closed the door with a thud. Dean didn't care that Cas couldn't see him anymore. He told himself to keep it together, not to break.

He watched Cas walk across the parking lot and into the building. He watched the side door close and lock automatically. He waited twenty full seconds before beating his palms over and over against the steering wheel.


	10. Chapter 10

"Wait, wait, wait. Back up. You did what now?"

Charlie's voice was so exuberant and ear splitting that Dean had to hold the phone away from his face while she squealed with delight. The last time he’d heard her react to something like that, she’d just met Gina Torres at Comic Con. He rolled his eyes, and placed his phone back between his cheek and his shoulder to hold it up as he haphazardly tossed the last of his clothes into his duffel.

The week had gone by in a whirlwind of last minute arrangements, readying the Impala for the long journey, and wrapping up whatever projects he had at the garage. But the time had finally come. Tomorrow, he and Sam would be hitting the western road on their way to Dad.

"Nothing. It's no big deal," he said, annoyed. Charlie had called to tell him about her vacation, and when she asked what had been going on in his life, he really hadn't meant the conversation to go so off the rails.

"Not a big deal? You made out with him!"

 _Damn it_. He shouldn't have even told her. It's not like it was the start of anything. It was pretty obvious it wouldn't happen again. He should have just kept his big mouth shut.

Because Charlie's big mouth was currently working a mile a minute, rambling on about how she "knew it" and "he totally likes you" and that she "totally can't believe you waited so long to tell me."

He could hear the giddy grin splitting her rosy cheeks, and the adrenaline rush was probably a better wake up than that crap tea, which was her usual go-to at eight in the morning.

"Al _right_ ," he cut in. "Don't hurt yourself. Like I said, it's nothing. Forget it.”

If he said it enough times, maybe he could convince himself. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, and he pointedly didn't think about the pit in his chest since Cas told him that he and Meg had taken their relationship to the next level. He hadn't really talked to him very much since then, mostly because he couldn't stomach the thought listening to Cas talk about the two of them bumping uglies on the nightly.

He moved the phone back into his hand and wiped at his upper lip, where sweat had collected thanks to the temperature. It was already shaping up to be a hot day, and the A/C unit currently sitting in the corner of the room had crapped out for the eightieth time since Dean bought it three years ago at a consignment store. He hadn’t gotten the chance to tinker it back into life yet. The open window wasn’t doing much, either, because the air outside was heavy and still, and doing nothing for the mood Charlie had put him in.

Christ, why was it already so hot this early into the summer?

"Can we change the subject, please?"

"No way! Do you know how long I've been waiting for this? I want all the gory details." He heard a shuffling of blankets over the line like she was settling in to hear a bedtime story.

Dean couldn't find his favorite t-shirt. He twisted around to see if it fell on the floor but came up empty.

"Was it just a kiss or a full blown make out sesh?"

Dean went over to his dirty clothes hamper and rifled through them. "Why would anyone call just a kiss making out?"

She gasped, and he had the feeling that if this were in person, she'd be hitting his arm right now. "And then what?"

He found the shirt and sniffed it. It was a little ripe, but not rank. It was fine. He threw it towards his bag on the bed.

"Oh my god. Tell me you guys did it."

The floor dropped out from under him, and he scrambled to catch his balance. She didn't know how close they'd gotten to her being right.

"We didn't—," he groaned, tilting his head back and turning his eyes skyward as if seeking help. "Nothing happened. It was a mistake. He didn't—." His fingers curled around his phone. "He's got a girlfriend, remember? We haven't even talked about it since it happened!"

She let out a tinny, frustrated noise over the line. "Must you be so allergic to talking about your feelings?"

He rubbed at both his eyes with two fingers until dark swirls danced beneath his lids. "Yeah, well, I don't think there's a Visine for that."

He zipped up his bag, impatiently jerking it harder when the zipper got stuck. Charlie huffed out a breath, but luckily she dropped the conversation. He didn't want to spend his day pining over Cas, which was kind of ironic considering what he actually did have planned.

"Look, I gotta get going. I'll text you from the road, okay?"

"Oh- _kay_ ," she whined, giving up completely now. He was happy he was able to wear her down about something. "Drive safe. Oh, and tell Sam I said have fun!"

"Will do."

"Give Cas a smooch for me before you leave!"

"Good _bye_ , Charlie." He hung up the phone before she could scramble to say anything else.

He peered around his room, making sure that he hadn't left anything out except for the last minute necessities, like his toothbrush and deodorant, he'd throw in the next morning. Everything looked good.

There was a plastic shopping bag, laden with contents, on the floor next to his bed. He scooped it up by the handles, making sure the material would hold and nodding to himself when it did, and moved out of his bedroom.

He didn't bother knocking on Sam's door before barging in. Sam was still in bed, his overgrown hair a mess in front of his eyes and a half-packed bag at the end of the frame. "Rise and shine!" Dean yelled, and Sam snorted awake in a rush.

Once the panic subsided, he dropped his face back into his pillow and muttered, "Fuck off."

Dean beamed his brightest, most annoying smile. "Come on, Sammy. Up. You need to be ready to go by this time tomorrow or, so help me, I will leave your ass."

Sam groaned, but mustered himself and rolled to his side. "I'll be ready," he maintained, irritated. "Why the hell are you up so early, anyway? Isn’t your usual wake up time on weekends 2 PM?"

That was a little bit of an exaggeration, but Dean let it slide.

"I'm headed out." He jounced the plastic bag in his hand to stop it from digging into his fingers. "Gonna spend some time with Cas. Should be back tonight."

Sam rearranged his features, deciding on whether pity or sympathy should be the most prominent emotion. "Okay," he said softly, settling for sympathy. He'd been doing that a lot recently whenever Cas was brought up. Dean was frankly sick of it.

He rolled his eyes and turned back towards the hall. "Sheesh. Gimme a break," he grumbled, and didn't close the door behind him when he left.

///

Castiel was roused violently from sleep by the door buzzer sounding off incessantly from the living room. It rammed consciousness into him with blunt force trauma, and his hand automatically flew to his alarm clock, conditioned by years of its ringing. Too late, he realized it was Saturday, and he never set an alarm on weekends.

Blearily, he squinted at the clock. 8:26 AM. Much too early to get up on any day, especially a Saturday.

Unfortunately, whoever was at the door didn’t share that sentiment, because the buzzer rang again.

Castiel groaned and shoved his face back into his pillow. Perhaps, if he ignored the bell, whoever it was would go away. Or Balthazar would answer it—which, he then remembered, was impossible because Balthazar had returned home to England for the summer.

Part of him wanted to continue ignoring the bell on principle, but a greater part of him just wanted the noise to stop.

Reluctantly, he dragged himself out of bed, running a hand through his untamed hair as he made for the intercom in the living room. Dean was on the screen, his image washed out and pixilated by the camera.

Castiel blinked. He hadn’t been expecting Dean. In fact, he thought he’d be too busy preparing for his trip to see him that day.

Clicking the button that allowed him to speak, he said, “Dean?”

On screen, he saw Dean’s face light up, surprised, like he was about to give up right before Castiel answered. “Finally!” Dean’s voice was tinny over the speaker. “I was starting to think you weren’t home.”

Castiel remembered the time, and he couldn’t think of a single thing important enough to get him out of bed at this hour. “It’s eight-thirty in the morning, Dean. Where would I be if not in bed?”

Dean shrugged. “I dunno. Meg’s?”

Why would he be at Meg’s?

“Anyway. Get dressed.”

“Why?”

“Just do it.”

“ _Why_?”

Dean rolled his eyes up heaven-bound. He deflected, “Listen, can we do this inside? It’d be nice to have a face-to-face here.”

Castiel sighed, rubbing the tired from his eyes. This was the last chance he’d get to see Dean for weeks, maybe longer. The thought alone caused an empty pit in his stomach, and he wondered if it would be easier to not say goodbye—to rip it off like a Band-Aid, as they say.

He couldn’t do that. Whatever amount of time Dean would give him, Castiel would take.

He clicked the button to unlock the front door, and he saw Dean enter the building before the screen went dark. It wouldn’t take long for Dean to get upstairs, and Castiel took the time to rush into the bathroom and try to tame his wild hair. It was hardly any use, and he wasn’t done by the time Dean was knocking on the door.

Still trying to make himself presentable, Castiel opened the door, and Dean came barreling through. He took one look at Castiel and complained, “What the hell, Cas? I told you to get dressed.”

“A minute and a half ago,” Castiel reminded him. “And you still haven’t told me why.”

Dean favored him with one of his blinding smiles, the ones that made lines form around his eyes and showed off his teeth and made Castiel’s chest clench up. “I planned the day for us. Thought I’d surprise you. I know you love those.”

Castiel narrowed his eyes at him. “I hate surprises.”

That earned him another eye roll, and too late, Castiel realized Dean had been joking.

“Come on, let’s go.” Dean grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him around, pushing him towards his bedroom to get dressed. Castiel resisted only slightly, making Dean’s palm dig into his skin and their legs stumble around each other’s.

“ _Dean_ —.” Castiel spun around, and whatever protest he was about to give died in his throat. Dean was very close, their chests almost touching and noses nearly brushing. Dean’s hand had slipped down from Castiel’s shoulder to his arm. Castiel found his breath trapped in his lungs as he lingered in Dean’s space, knowing it was the very last he’d get of it in a while.

His eyes dipped down to Dean’s lips, wondering just how close he could get.

Dean cleared his throat, yanked his hand away from Castiel, and took a step backwards. Castiel was knocked back into reality, and he moved back, too.

“Look, man,” Dean told him, voice suddenly stern. “It’s my last day here. We’re gonna make the most of it, whether you like it or not.”

That pit in Castiel’s stomach felt a little shallower now, knowing that he still had time before Dean had to go. And, for whatever reason, Dean had elected to spend it with him.

“Okay, Dean,” he said. “If that’s what you want.”

Dean seemed satisfied. “Good. Now, go.” He spun around and walked to the couch, plopping down on the cushions. Castiel went to his room and left the door open in order to still converse with Dean as he got dressed.

“Where are we going, anyway?” he called, moving to his closet and rummaging through his shirts. His button up that Anael sometimes told him he looked handsome in was in the hamper, wrinkled, after a date with Meg, and he inwardly cursed himself for not saving it. He picked out two other shirts on their hangers, holding them up to his torso, before he decided on one.

Meanwhile, Dean said, “Thought we’d go to Benny’s first. You didn’t eat yet, right?”

Castiel cast another baleful look at the clock. “I haven’t even had coffee yet.” His machine wouldn’t start automatically percolating for another hour.

“’Kay, so we’ll get you caffeinated, sleepyhead. And get me some waffles,” Dean called from the living room. Castiel looked through the drawers of his dresser. None of his slacks felt appropriate for a full day with Dean. He licked his lips in thought before deciding on a pair of dark jeans.

“Then I thought maybe we’d hit the lake. There’s a hiking trail that goes out to a dock on the water. It’s a nice spot. Oh, and there’s this exhibit about frontier life at the history museum that I think both of us might like.”

Castiel found himself grinning as he jumped into his pants. Cowboys for Dean, a museum for him. “A compromise?”

“Exactly.”

Lastly, he got his black shoes and quickly slipped them on. There was a scuff on the toe of his right shoe, so he licked his finger to scrub it out.

“After that, who knows? We’ll see where the day goes.”

“I thought you said you had a plan.”

“I do,” Dean maintained. “Kinda. Hey, that’s more planning than I’ve done . . . ever.”

Once Castiel was satisfied with how he looked, he walked back into the living room. “Then, I’ll count myself lucky.”

Dean brought his gaze up to look at him, his eyes flickering up and down his body. Castiel tried to ignore the way it made his ears heat up. But then Dean said, “I just told you we’re going on a hike, and those are the shoes you wear?”

Castiel’s face dropped. Why did he even bother? “Well, I’m sorry, Dean. I don’t own any hiking boots.”

“Alright, _easy_. Touchy.” Dean put his hands on his knees and hauled himself up from the couch. “We’ll make a pit stop downtown and pick you up some better shoes. Now, you ready? I’m starving.”

Castiel nodded, evening his temper. He didn’t want to spend their last day annoyed with Dean, as inevitable as that sometimes was. “Yes.”

Dean went for the door, holding it open as Castiel walked out of the apartment.

///

Benny's had a few tables already full by the time they got there, single people at the counter sipping coffee while reading the paper, families with little kids eating their bacon-smiley face pancakes, and a tired looking couple sitting silently with their heads bowed into their food, probably just taking a pit stop on the way to somewhere more exciting. Dean realized he'd be like them soon: just a nameless guy passing through some town along the highway. It gave him a rush of adrenaline, right up until Cas wandered through the door behind him, coming up close enough to Dean's side that the backs of their hands grazed.

Dean looked at him, taking in Cas' profile, while Cas unknowingly looked forward. As his gaze moved up and down Cas' face, he couldn't stop thinking of his conversation with Charlie from earlier that morning. It set him on edge, static forming in his fingertips at the what ifs and maybes. She seemed so sure that Cas hadn’t just been caught up in the moment when they’d kissed.

Dean forced himself to look away and found Andrea flitting around the cramped spaces between the tables, a decaf pot of coffee in one hand and a regular in the other. "Hey, Andrea," Dean greeted, holding his arm up over his head and waving exaggeratedly, as if the restaurant wasn't the size of a damn meat locker.

"Hi. Glad you swung by before your big trip. I know someone who'll be happy about that." She nodded her head backwards towards the kitchen, where Dean caught flashes of Benny through the window. "Castiel. Hello."

He smiled tightly and greeted her, still a little shy and awkward around her, like he got with people he didn't really know. But Andrea was easy enough to talk to, so Dean thought it was okay to leave them alone for a second.

He moved away while Andrea was asking, "No kids today?"

"No. They're at the orphanage—," Cas responded, and that's all Dean heard before the patron's conversations and kids’ rowdy laughter drowned them out. He walked towards the counter, twisting and shuffling sideways to navigate through the chairs and tables.

When he finally got there, he fit himself in between two stools, leaned over the counter, and shouted, "Hey, Benny! Come say goodbye to your favorite customer!"

Benny's bright grin came into view through the window. "Dean. You leavin' already?" he said, his slow drawl teasing and lyrical. He straightened up again and, two seconds later, he was coming through the flapping double doors of the kitchen, wiping his hands on his greasy apron. "Good thing, too. Maybe I can save some money on bacon without you here to eat me out of house and home."

Dean shot back, "You know you're gonna miss me."

"Only on days that end in Y, brother."

Benny raised his arms to wrap Dean into a squishing bear hug, and Dean clapped his hands against his shoulder before they drew away. It attracted a few looks from the other customers, but Dean didn’t really care.

“So, when you takin’ off?” Benny asked.

“Bright and early tomorrow. ‘Round six,” Dean answered, his voice taking on a slight southern twang without him meaning to. He’d always been a little too susceptible to accents, having lived with enough of them over the years. Benny’s tended to influence Dean when he was around.

Benny nodded thoughtfully. “Alright. Well, you make sure you swing by first. I’ll whip up a little somethin’, somethin’ for you and that brother of yours to take on the road.”

Dean grinned at the offer. He wasn’t really sure how Benny expected him to eat a plate of eggs and sausages on the road, but Dean was sure willing to try. Even a breakfast burrito would be awesome. “Well, hell, I’ll be here with bells on. Thanks a lot, Benny.”

“Anytime.” Benny slapped him on the shoulder before heading back into the kitchen. Dean turned towards the other side of the bar, where Cas was already sitting at their usual booth near the windows, studying the menu as if he didn’t already know every item on it.

“Anything exciting?” Dean asked as he slid into the booth opposite him. There was a group of girls that looked about incoming-freshman age a few tables over throwing glances at Cas and leaning over their plates to whisper in each other’s ears behind their hands.

“I think I may try the chocolate chip pancakes,” Cas told him in a way that suggested they were discussing whether or not to punch in the nuclear launch codes. His voice was nearly a growl, and he was still waking up, his eyes forming slits against the light and his hair an explosion on top of his head that Dean’s hands itched to smooth down. He caught Andrea’s attention and gestured politely for two coffees.

“How adventurous.”

“Although, it does have chocolate syrup, too. Is that too much chocolate this early in the morning?”

“No such thing, Cas.”

“Hmm.”

The girls let out soft, flirtatious giggles, one of them tossing her hair in too wide and arc for it to be anything but attention seeking. Their eyes were still on Cas. Dean pressed his lips into a tight, flat line, his cheeks dimpling in annoyance. Cas, of course, was completely oblivious. And wasn’t that just like him? Probably one of the funniest things about Cas, Dean thought, was how hot he was and he didn’t even know it. It didn’t even register.

Dean picked up his menu for something to do, even though he already knew what he was going to get.

“Dean.”

He glanced up at Cas over the clear laminated edges of the menu. “What?”

Cas leaned in, dropping his voice. “I think those young women are making advances on you.” He jerked his head inconspicuously towards the other table.

Dean had to laugh. He dropped his eyes as his shoulders shook in a small breath.

Yup. Didn’t even register.

“Yeah, maybe, Cas.”

Cas sat back, placing his menu on the table in front of him. “They seem a little young. Would you like to talk with them?”

“Nope. I’m good,” he answered without lifting his eyes again.

Cas was quiet for a few seconds. And then, “It’s just—I’d understand. If you . . .”

Dean looked at him. Cas didn’t return the stare.

“If there was someone else’s company that you . . . Like Charlie or—.”

What the hell was he even saying?

“It is your last day in town, after all, and you do have other friends. And prospects.” His eyes flashed to the girls, who were thankfully collecting their things to leave. It sounded like Cas was building up to something, but he just couldn’t get it out.

“Why _didn’t_ you want to spend your last day with Charlie?”

Dean’s stomach lurched, but he covered it up with a forced breath of frustration. There was no way he was about to answer that question.

He was definitely not going to tell Cas that he couldn’t stand the thought of him being with Meg while Dean had less than twenty-four hours left in town.

He wasn’t going to say he wanted something to hold on to while he was away, to try to get his fill of Cas before he couldn’t.

Or that this might have been the last time they could hang out normally, before Dean came back with new experiences under his belt and Cas would be over a month into a serious relationship. That they could drift apart and everything could be different come the end of the summer and the thought of it made Dean sick.

Or that this was do or die time, and he could either step up and be a man about telling Cas how much he wanted to be with him, or he could let it all slide by and fade away.

Or that maybe he was just looking for a reason to stay.

There was just no way he’d say any of that.

"What is this, twenty-one questions?" Dean shot back, dropping his menu to the table. "Because, if it is, you owe me like, three turns."

Cas shuffled a little in his seat, moving his shoulders and setting his hands on his lap under the table as he settled in. "Okay. Ask your questions," he said simply.

Dean blinked dumbly as the meaning caught up to him. Cas really wanted to play a round of twenty-one questions with him? What was this, a bad dating app introduction? This was a terrible idea.

"You're kidding," Dean deadpanned.

Cas tilted his head slightly to the side, assessing Dean. "No. Just tell me the rules and I'd be happy to play, Dean. If that's what you want."

Nope. This was definitely a bad idea.

He sat back, propping one arm up along the top of the bench seat.

"Sure. We'll play a game of truth or dare next. Braid each other’s hair."

Something in the back of Dean's mind buzzed excitedly, daring him to do it. Because there was so much he wanted to ask Cas, even though he knew he couldn't, even in the parameters of the game. They'd crawl up his throat and die behind his teeth before he worked up the nerve to say them.

Questions like, _what does Meg have that I don't?_

Questions like, _did you mean it when you kissed me back?_

Questions like, _could you cool it with the mixed signals before I get whiplash here?_

He licked his lips, and slid his arms out in front of him on the table, leaning in. "Okay," he said, still unsure, but he didn't know how to get out of this or even if he wanted to. "Rule's are simple. I ask you a question, you answer honestly. Then you ask me one and I answer you. And you keep going until we both ask twenty-one questions." He held up his finger and pointedly added, " _But_ , every question counts. So, you ask something, even if you don't mean to, you lose a turn. Capice?"

Cas nodded. "Capice," he echoed. And then, brows furrowed in realization, he said, "So, what you just said counts as a question." His words were slow, careful, his tone not rising up at the end to indicate a question mark. Dean had a feeling he was about to lose this game, even if it wasn't the type to have a winner.

But he was pretty sure that, somehow, with Cas, someone was bound to come out of this as the champion.

"No! _Man_ ," Dean groaned.

"But you framed it as a question."

It totally wouldn't be fair if that were counted. "I was explaining the rules."

"You counted my questions and we weren't even playing yet."

Dean ran his hand down his face, wanting to argue. But it probably wasn't worth it. It was just a stupid game, after all, and Cas was giving him those round, innocent eyes, and Dean just couldn't say no to him. "Fine. Whatever. We'll count it."

One corner of Cas' mouth quirked up in a lopsided smile that he tried to bite back, like he knew exactly what he'd done. Bastard got his rocks off being difficult.

Then, Cas' expression shifted into something expectant, and he lifted one had to gesture at Dean to get on with it.

Dean considered as he dropped his head down, fiddling with his own fingers. He had to start small. There was no way he just casually blurt out, _do I owe Charlie a steak dinner and a speech at our wedding?_

Hell, he didn't even know if that was something he could build up to.

So, starting small it was. "What's your favorite color?"

"Green," Cas answered immediately in no uncertain terms. Dean's neck snapped up, because he couldn't believe what he just heard. Something flashed in Cas' eyes, too, like he hadn't meant to say it so automatically. But it was gone in a matter of a second, and he carefully blanked his expression.

Yeah, this game was officially the world's worst idea.

Thankfully, Andrea took that time to come over with their coffees and to take their orders. They chatted a little about Dean's upcoming trip and whatever summer plans she and Benny had. They were headed back to New Orleans to visit his niece for a week, but it was the same old grind besides that. Dean was grateful for the distraction, and he tried not to look at Cas the whole time, even though his gaze kept straying towards him and quickly snapping away when Cas returned the look.

And, when he wasn’t looking, he could feel Cas’ eyes on him.

After she left to put their orders in, there was an awkward beat, and Dean wasn't really sure how to fill it. Cas' gaze was downcast, awkward. Dean sat back and cleared his throat, then gestured his hands out on the table. "Okay, now you go."

Cas seemed happy to have some semblance of instruction after that whole debacle. And, who knew, maybe that would be the worst of it? Maybe things wouldn't escalate. Dean was hopeful.

"Okay," Cas said, staring ahead at him again flatly. "When did you first realize you're attracted to men?"

Dean practically choked. "Jesus, Cas. You can't just come right outta the gate with that stuff!"

Cas seemed offended. "Why not?"

"That was a question," Dean said, choosing to focus on that instead. Cas rolled his eyes but didn't protest. "And because . . ." He sputtered a little like a fish on a dock. He couldn't come up with an explanation Cas would accept. So, lamely, he said, "You just can't."

Cas' face screwed up as he whined in what Dean had termed his _rich kid who always gets his way_ voice, "Nowhere in your rules did it specify—."

"Alright, relax."

Dean sighed. It was kind of a personal question, but he guessed he could answer it truthfully without revealing too much. "Seventh grade. We were living in Colorado." He grinned a little wistfully, and a little suggestively, in memory. "There was this kid named Victor. He was a grade older, and on the school's football team . . ." He remembered the way Victor would slam his broad shoulders into the players on the opposing team, the way he would stretch his body up as he jumped gracefully to catch the ball thrown from across the field. He remembered going into the locker room after a game under the pretense of finding a bathroom and peeking into the showers.

"I, uh—went to the games sometimes."

He remembered pretending Victor wasn't the reason he attended those games. He remembered convincing himself that he really had been looking for the bathroom and just got turned around.

When his eyes came back into focus, it was to Cas nodding sternly at something, his lips puckered tensely. His face was pinched in concentration, like Dean's answer meant something to him personally.

And Dean pretended like he wasn't hoping that Cas was considering whether he liked boys, too. Boys, in particular, like the one sitting across from him.

He had to change the topic before his mind went whirling. Saying the first thing that popped into his head, he posed the age-old, "If you were stranded on a desert island, what's one thing you'd bring with you?"

Cas tried to argue that the hypothetical made no sense because he couldn't prepare to become stranded somewhere, and the anticipation would make it "a moot point because I could easily avoid the whole situation if I knew it were to happen."

So much for tried and true questions.

Eventually, Dean managed to get him to answer in a huff, "Gasoline to refill my boat's engine so I could leave, I suppose."

It was going to be a long day.

When their breakfast came, Dean busied himself drenching is waffles in syrup and crunching the bacon into bits to mix them in with his scrambled eggs. Cas cut into his pancakes with the side of his fork, and only took one bite before plopping a rubbery off-white chunk of cantaloupe from his fruit salad into his mouth. He emptied more sugar into his coffee than should be legal.

Cas asked Dean what makes him the happiest, which was at least slightly less intense than his previous question. Dean stuck to the basics: his car, _Stairway to Heaven_ coming on the radio, hanging out with his friends, Princess Leia in that metal bikini.

Those things were true, but he was willing to bet Cas was looking for something deeper. Cas was looking for the things Dean couldn't describe, the things that brought on a happiness too big for Dean's chest. The happiness that almost felt like sadness because it would never last.

When he smells apple pie baking and thinks of the recipe his mom used to make. When Sam was in grade school and brought home a test with a big old A+ written in red on the top, and the toothless smile on his face when Dean put it up on the fridge. When he makes tacos for his friends and they enjoy it so much that all conversation goes quiet as they eat. When Dad comes home after months on the road. When Bobby slaps Dean firmly on the shoulder with a job well done, and the rush of satisfaction it brings him, after he fixed up a particularly hard engine.

The open road.

The revving of the Impala.

Sam riding shotgun and Cas in the backseat, where he belongs.

The lasting memory of the press of Cas' mouth on his.

When Dean listed "sex," Cas looked out the window to the parking lot, his jaw clamping into a square. Dean had gotten pretty good at catching the small expressions that Cas didn't want anyone to see. He'd gotten pretty good at deciphering the emotions Cas didn't want to feel.

And Charlie's words from that morning echoed in his head. He didn't know why they affected him so much. It wasn't like it was the first time she told Dean that Cas liked him and he should do something about it. But it seemed different this time. More urgent. Like this was the last chance Dean was gonna get.

Dean came back with, "What's the dumbest pick up line anyone's ever tried on you?"

And Cas smiled wryly and said, "Someone once offered to make me a drink because my friend had, as he put it, ditched me at the bar. But that was right before the police apprehended him."

Dean laughed, shaking his head. "I dunno, Cas. That doesn't sound very much like a pick up line to me. I kinda think, if that guy were hitting on you, you'd know it."

"Well, you had to be there. You might think differently."

A giddiness fluttered up from Dean's chest, and it took every bit of his willpower to hold back his grin. He shoved the sticky, congealing remains of his breakfast to the side and leaned forward again.

"I wouldn't read too much into it. I hear that guy flirts with everyone."

"Yes, and I frequently wonder what his success rate is." Cas stabbed the last of his pancakes with his fork and spread it through the smears of chocolate syrup sticking to his plate. He didn't eat it.

Dean's stomach was doing a weird flipping thing, and he had to force himself to say, "You think about that guy often?" His voice didn't sound very playful, like he’d wanted it to be. It was way too quiet, way too weighted. If it had been anyone else, it'd be easy. It'd be banter. It'd be meaningless.

Cas brought his eyes up, the blue of them piercing. He scanned Dean up and down, his jaw working slowly from side to side as he considered. And, _holy shit_. "From time to time," he answered.

Dean wanted to kiss him so badly he couldn't stand it.

He could already hear the clattering of cutlery and the crash of plates if he were to throw himself over the table to kiss Cas.

He wanted to ask if Cas would have given him a chance that night in the bar if Billie and her squad hadn't turned up. He wanted to ask if his techniques had been working. He wanted to ask if Cas would have gone home with him.

But he just stared and stared, and Cas stared back.

And then Cas drew in a breath, mustering something within him. "Dean—."

Cas' cell went off in his pocket. The noise startled them both, and Dean jerked backwards and rattled his head, cursing himself for being such an idiot.

Cas dug into his jeans and pulled out his phone, squinting down at the screen for a half-second before a soft smile came to his eyes. "Meg," he said after picking up.

Dean wished he could sink into the floor and never be seen again.

He heard Meg's slick drawl over the line, but couldn't make out what she was saying. Cas gave Dean an awkward look, pressing his lips together as if to tell him he was sorry and this wouldn't take long. In the meantime, Dean balled up his napkin and tossed it onto his plate.

"Yes. Yeah. I . . . No, I can't, I'm with Dean."

Cas’ voice dipped into a low rasp, and Dean tried his best not to listen, but his ears strained anyway. He got Andrea's attention from where she was taking another table's order and signaled for the check by miming a writing motion.

"Okay. Yeah, tomorrow it is." Dean pretended not to hear that, and he especially pretended not to hear the warmth in Cas' tone as he said it. "Bye."

He hung up the phone and put it back into his pocket, saying, "Sorry."

"Nah, it's cool." Dean picked up his coffee and brought it to his lips. It tasted like lukewarm WD-40 at that point. Over the rim of his mug, he asked, "How's Frau Blucher?"

Cas stayed quiet. He probably didn't get the reference, and Dean made a mental note to add it to the ever-growing list of movies to introduce him to, but he could probably figure out it was an insult. Past experience really didn't peg Dean as Meg's biggest fan.

"Dean," he said again slowly. "Why don't you like Meg?"

 _Shit_.

Cas' tone hadn't been accusatory or whiny or even despondent. It didn't even really sound like a question. It sounded like he was testing a theory.

Dean swallowed some of the coffee to buy himself time, and forced himself not to spit it back up no matter how cold it was. "I don't—I like her just fine."

That was a lie not even he could sell.

Cas tipped his head to the side, giving him a _you've got to be joking_ look.

Dean sagged. "I dunno, Cas."

"The truth," Cas reminded him smartly. "Your rules."

Damn it.

"It is the truth!" It wasn't. "I don't know, Cas. She ain't so thrilled with me, either, in case you haven't noticed."

"I have."

"Okay, then." He flailed out his hands dismissively. "We're just water and oil. That's all."

Andrea saved him by coming over with the bill, and Cas thanked her while Dean aggressively slid it closer to him and flipped it open before Cas got the chance.

"At the risk of using another one of my turns," Cas said, clearly not dropping the topic no matter how much Dean wanted him to, "it has nothing to do with—."

Dean pulled out his wallet and shifted through his cash. "With what, Cas?"

"With me?"

Dean froze, his fingers stilling over a twenty-dollar bill. He was taking way too long to answer.

"With—no! No way, man. It's got nothing to do with you." He sounded phony, nervous, and he was definitely protesting way too much. He couldn't stop. "You're like—no! Two totally different things. You and Meg are—I'm happy for you. Really." He tried for a smile. Even he knew it was too tense and didn't reach his eyes.

Cas held his gaze momentarily, and then his eyes flickered down to the table. Was it Dean, or did he look a little disappointed? "Okay, Dean."

Dean put his money on the table. He still felt jittery, and he didn't know why he said it; but, haltingly, he added, "But, you know—thanks. For—you know. Not ditching me just now to hang out with her."

Cas' brow lined like the thought hadn't even crossed his mind. "Of course. This is important."

Dean snorted at his sincerity. "What, you tellin' me that hanging out with a buddy is more important than chasing tail?" If it were anyone but Cas, Dean wouldn't buy it.

Cas looked at him levelly. "I suppose it depends on the _buddy_."

And, yeah, this game was the worst torture Dean's ever put himself through. But something must have been wrong with him in the head, because he liked the hurt.

///

It was difficult trying to prevent himself from asking questions. Castiel had already wasted a number of his turns on mundane questions that he hadn’t intended to be a part of the game.

_Would you like anything else to eat before we leave?_

_Where’s the museum?_

_Do you need money for your admission ticket?_

_Would you please let me buy your ticket anyway as a parting gift?_

_Why are you constantly so difficult?_

Although, in fairness, Dean had wasted a few of his turns as well. Perhaps both of them were poor players, and Castiel regretted his agreement to play. Because there were other things he wanted to ask. More important things.

_Will you miss me while your gone?_

_Will you even spare a thought to me?_

_Will you find a different girl or boy in every city you visit to keep you company?_

_Will you fall in love with someone out there?_

_Will you come back?_

_Would you considering staying?_

He couldn’t bring himself to ask a single one of them.

The point was, Castiel had asked a total of twelve questions so far. Dean had asked thirteen. Castiel didn’t know what more to ask him that he didn’t already know.

They wandered around the inside of the museum exhibition, one of them straying every now and again when something caught their eye. Castiel spent most of his time looking at unearthed artifacts, display cases filled with replicas of clothing and wrangling tools, and one rather impressive recreation of the interior of a typical one-room frontier home. He listened in to one tour guide exuberantly giving a meager group of two mothers and their young children information on the Union Pacific Railroad and its involvement in the local wars with the Native American tribes.

Dean was mainly interested in the displays about the outlaws and lawmen that had made names for themselves in Kansas. He seemed to already know much about them, and excitedly pulled Castiel over to a blown up photograph of the Dodge City Gang. He read the plaque aloud, and went on to provide more information about the participants such as Bat Masterson and Luke Short. He especially seemed well versed in Wyatt Earp’s full biography.

Castiel was only half listening to him. It wasn’t as if he weren’t interested in the history. He was. But he was too enraptured by Dean’s passion for the topic. The way Dean’s eyes lit up in copper green, and the curve of his smile, and the way he gesticulated with his hands. He came alive as he regaled Castiel with the story of how Doc Holliday saved Earp’s life in Dodge. A nearby museum employee even seemed impressed.

Perhaps Castiel should have been accustomed to Dean surprising him by now. But he thought he’d never get used to it. And he didn’t want to.

“Why do you like cowboys so much?” Castiel asked as they moved on to a display about the types of six shooters used in the 1800s. It was his turn to ask a question, after all, and this one seemed appropriate.

Dean lifted one shoulder, his reflection in the glass unwavering as he peered down at an old Colt. “I dunno. It was just a cooler life back then.”

Castiel furrowed his brow, disagreeing. “Many people died of consumption and syphilis, Dean.”

“No, I know _that_. I ain’t saying it was better,” Dean backtracked. He licked his lips in thought, trying to rephrase himself. “I just mean . . . People could pretty much do whatever they wanted back then. Nobody was really held down. I mean, they had all this unexplored territory out there, and they could just pick up and go. Get in a stagecoach and settle down somewhere no one’d ever been before, or go from boomtown to boomtown and just hunt for gold or get in fights or work the gambling circuit.”

He meandered away aimlessly from the display, and Castiel followed after him, considering his answer.

“People didn’t have to work dead-end jobs or try to make rent or get stuck in a routine if they didn't want.”

Castiel thought he understood. Of course, life wasn’t easy back then, especially if one wasn’t a white male, and he thought he’d prefer the comforts of the modern era. But he understood Dean’s attraction. He thought what his life might be like without the stresses of school and a career hanging over him. He wondered what it might mean to be his own man.

“People were just . . .”

“Free.”

Dean stopped walking and turned to him. “Yeah.”

Castiel couldn’t quite meet his eyes. He’d always known Dean valued his freedom. He knew Dean didn’t want to be held down by anyone or anything, and perhaps the only reason he remained in Lawrence was because of his sense of duty to his family. But maybe that would change once Sam graduated and went on his own path. Perhaps then Dean would take to the wind.

And Castiel would remain. He had duties of his own.

“Good point about the syphilis, though,” Dean joked. Castiel tried to smile, but he only pressed his lips together in a line.

“Okay, my turn,” Dean said, spinning around and walking again. Castiel shoved his hands in his pockets and kept pace. “If you could spend the night with one person, living or dead, who would it be?”

Castiel drew in a breath, but Dean abruptly amended, “And, I swear to God, if you say Lincoln—.”

He sagged. “But it is.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Dude.”

“You said _anyone_.”

“Anyone _else_. And I meant spend the night like sex, not like—to eat dinner.”

Castiel had known what he meant, but he couldn’t very well say _you_. And he wasn’t interested in sleeping with many other people, especially not the dead ones.

“I believe the term for having sex with a dead person is necrophilia.”

“Ew. Not like that, you perv. They’d be alive again.” Dean gestured both hands at his own chest. “See, for me, it’d be Swayze. Or Audrey Hepburn . . .” To that, a longing look glazed his eyes over, like he was playing some scenario in his imagination. He shook his head slightly. “Mm.”

“You want me to answer with a celebrity?” Castiel asked, and too late did he realize he’d wasted another question. Dean pointed at him and raised his brows to signify he wouldn’t let the blunder slide. Castiel sighed. “Fine. Malala Yousafzai. _For_ _dinner_.”

Dean blinked at him for a few seconds, and then turned away like he was ashamed of him. “You are such a nerd.”

Castiel grinned behind his back.

“She’s an inspiration.”

“Uh-huh.”

Dean peered around the room, mostly empty now but for a few stragglers who glanced at the displays and plaques without fully reading them. His eyes focused on something just over Castiel’s shoulder, and Castiel looked around to find a case with a few rusted medical supplies, bottles, and tinctures. There was also a poster depicting a colorful drawing of a mother with two round faced, happy looking children, an advertisement for something called Mrs. Winslow’s Soothing Syrup.

Dean wandered over to the case and looked inside, and Castiel followed. It appeared to discuss the medical treatments and drugs on the frontier. Dean took his time, reading the plaques closely.

“Looks like people were doing the hard stuff back then,” he said softly. His tone was odd, and Castiel couldn’t pinpoint why. He looked at Dean’s reflection in the glass, but it was too transparent to see much of anything, so he surreptitiously tried to gauge his expression out of the corners of his eyes. He came up with nothing.

“Yes, narcotics were prevalent throughout history. At times, they were in higher demand than alcohol,” Castiel explained, thinking back to the information he’d gathered about the Victorian Era all the way back to ancient times. Drugs and medicines were usually mentioned, no matter how briefly. “Morphine and opioids in particular.”

“Yeah, yeah, uh—there were Chinese opium dens,” Dean chimed in, apparently remembering something on his own. “And, uh, what was it—laudanum.”

Castiel wasn’t certain. He wasn’t very well versed in the history of narcotics. It held little interest to him. He shrugged. “Perhaps. I do know Coca-Cola began as medicine for headaches, and contained cocaine.”

He expected that to get a reaction out of Dean, maybe even prompting him to crack a joke. Dean just kept staring ahead. It worried Castiel. He wondered if Dean was thinking about Sam, and what happened to Jessica. “Dean?”

Dean shook his head gently, and blinked for the first time in what Castiel realized must have been a full minute. “Yeah, I—it’s nothing,” he said, answering a question Castiel hadn’t even asked. “I just . . .” He turned away from the case to face Castiel, distractedly bringing his hand up to his mouth and tugging on his bottom lip.

Castiel’s eyes flickered down to watch it, and he imagined doing the same thing with his teeth.

“Hey, Cas? I got a question,” Dean said, knocking him out of his reverie.

Castiel swept back up to his eyes and gave his attention.

Dean hesitated, and then smiled, but it was faded at the edges and his eyes were dull. “Say somebody had a . . . a secret, right?”

“Okay . . .”

“And it had something to do with you. Would you—?” His smile faltered some, but he kept it pressed casually to his lips. Castiel narrowed his eyes. “Would you wanna know it? You know, even if it wasn’t pretty?”

Castiel considered, but not the question. He was mostly pondering Dean’s behavior. He was acting strange, and the question seemed very abrupt. Although, to be fair, so was every question Dean had asked as a part of the game they were playing. Perhaps this was just another common question that people posed during twenty-one questions. That seemed like a rational explanation.

And besides, Dean wouldn’t keep a secret from Castiel. What even was there to keep? Unless . . .

Castiel’s heart beat a little faster, fluttering in his chest.

Unless Dean had feelings for him.

It seemed unlikely.

“Yes,” he answered, feeling brave. “If it effects me, then I think I have a right to the information.” He brought his eyes back up and squinted at Dean, trying to better focus on his expression.

Dean’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, and he nodded once. Something flashed on his face that Castiel couldn’t decipher. “Right . . .” Suddenly, he was grinning again, eyes coming alight with a burst of energy. “Good talk.”

He slapped Castiel on the shoulder and moved away.

Castiel remained briefly, wondering what had just happened. Whatever it was, it left him disappointed. He didn’t know what else he’d been hoping for. He looked back at the display case, eyes tracking over the large metallic syringes and dark brown enameled glass bottles. He followed after Dean.

They walked back towards the lobby of the museum, having exhausted the exhibition. Dean asked, “Wanna go get you some new shoes so we can hike to the lake?”

“That was a question,” Castiel pointed out absently as he held open the door. He ignored Dean’s groan as he slumped through without saying thank you. He looked down at his shoes. They certainly weren’t fit for hiking, but he thought he might have an old pair of boots at his family home. They could just as easily go there as they could drive downtown, and it would save them from having to waste time shopping.

But then an idea struck him. There was another reason to go to the Novak house, and it was slightly more daring than a hike. But this would be their last day together in quite some time, and Castiel wanted it to be memorable for Dean.

Maybe it would be enough to make him come back at the end of his trip.

Dean was already halfway to the Impala in the parking lot when he realized Castiel was still at the entrance, holding the door open and letting the air conditioning from inside filter out into the growing heat of the afternoon. He looked over his shoulder. “Cas?”

Castiel glanced up, making up his mind. “Is your heart set on hiking?”

Dean seemed confused. “Uh. I guess not. Why, you got a better idea?”

Castiel felt one corner of his mouth slant up as he let the door swing shut behind him. “Maybe.”

“Well, jeez, Cas, I’m all ears.”

They’d have to be careful. Michael wouldn’t like it if he found out. But he wouldn’t find out. Castiel would make sure of it.

“There’s more than one way to reach a dock on the lake.”

Dean seemed intrigued. “How?”

///

The Impala pulled up to the gate outside the Novak house. Dean peered out of the windshield and through the iron bars to the mansion on the top of the hill. It looked different than it had during the holidays. The decorations were gone, for one thing, and the blazing sun beating down on the pristine white paint made it almost blinding to look at. There was a sparkling glare coming off the rose window. And the house was quieter, empty. There wasn’t a line of cars leading up to the door, and there was no live music coming down from above. It looked like one of those museum houses that tour groups buy tickets for when they don’t have anything better to do. Dean could only imagine what the Yelp reviews would be like.

_Lots of history, and pretty views, but who would ever live here? The place feels like it’s a carcass. Also the owner was a dick. Two out of five stars._

Cas squinted up the hill, too, checking to make sure no one was home—like his siblings or the landscapers or anything—and breathed out in relief when he was satisfied. He instructed Dean to roll down his window and, without warning, he stretched out across Dean’s body and stuck his head out of the window to reach for the key pad next to the gate.

Dean pressed himself as far back as he could against his seat, and desperately told himself not to pay any attention to Cas’ chest brushing against his. Or Cas’ hand digging into his shoulder for balance. Or Cas’ knee resting just a little too high up his thigh. Jesus, he was practically sitting in his lap.

The gate began to roll open on its tracks, and Cas abruptly shuffled back into the car. Dean let out an unexpected _oof_ sound when Cas’ knee dug into his leg and his hand slipped down to his chest. And then Cas was back in his own seat, and Dean was suddenly way too aware of how hot it was outside.

“Dean,” Cas said after a few seconds, tone perplexed. Dean realized he was white-knuckling the steering wheel. He swallowed hard and accelerated up the hill.

When Cas unlocked the front door of the house, the burglar alarm sounded, making Dean run cold with its shrill ringing. He felt like they were breaking in, like he shouldn’t be there. But then Cas punched in the code and the alarm cut out, and Dean still couldn’t shake the feeling of how displaced he was. He wandered into the foyer, with its high ceilings and immaculate chandelier. The white walls appeared grayish with all the lights turned off, and it was so quiet he could probably hear a pin drop.

It felt like the place should be decaying and covered in cobwebs.

“Follow me,” Cas said, his voice quiet, but it still echoed back to them. As he walked through the house, Dean noticed his posture was a little straighter and his chin was lifted. He went right to the glass wall at the back of the house and opened the door to the patio. The lake at the bottom of the hill was twinkling with white starbursts.

Dean followed Cas down to the dock, and then a little further along the lake to a boathouse. The doors slid open barn-style, and the same boat that had been on display at the Christmas party was tethered inside. The water lapping against it made rushing, trickling noises. Dean peered around at the other items inside the boathouse. There were some miscellaneous paraphernalia, like old life vests and swim noodles. There was a workbench with some tools and engine oil. A float in the shape of a swan was pushed into a corner next to some water skis, its left wing deflated.

“Awesome!” Dean exclaimed when he saw two jet skis rocking in the waves on the far section of the boathouse. He rushed over to them, ready to hop on and start it up, even though he had no idea how to work it. It couldn’t be that hard, right? “ _Dude_ —you been holding out on me!”

Cas was already in the boat, untying the ropes holding it to the dock and pulling in the fenders. “Yes, I was. Purposefully,” he said tonelessly, but Dean knew he was kidding. “We aren’t here for those. Get in the boat.”

Dean whined, “Oh, come on, Cas! I wanna take this puppy for a spin!” He brushed his fingers on the handles, itching to swing his leg over the seat.

Cas paused what he was doing and said, “You’ll just have to return from your trip, then.”

To that, Dean went still. All the protest drained out of him, and he tried to get a read on what the hell Cas meant by that. He’d said it so flatly, and he turned away again too quickly for Dean to gauge his expression.

Deciding to give up the fight, Dean carefully put one foot on the edge of the boat, his stomach sloshing when it moved further away from him. He planted his other boot firmly on the dock and gripped onto the boat’s railing. He wanted to ask Cas if he was _sure_ he knew how to drive this thing, but then he’d waste a question, and Cas had already assured him that he had it covered.

Steeling himself, Dean quickly kicked his foot off the dock and leaped into the boat, causing it to rock gracelessly under his movements. Cas didn’t seem to notice, though. He was putting the key in the ignition, and the engine puttered into life.

“Speaking of,” Dean said, sitting on the bench seat at the back of the boat, “Dream vacation?”

Cas had already accidentally wasted one of his turns in the car by asking Dean if he got seasick, so it was Dean’s turn to ask a question. It was probably a lame one, especially since Cas had probably been to all kinds of crazy places like Greece and Tahiti and Rome and wherever-the-hell. Dean’s most exciting vacation to date had been a weekend in Atlantic City when he wasn’t even old enough to gamble.

Cas lifted his head up to the ceiling, pondering. He said, “I’ve always considered taking advantage of the university’s Habitat for Humanity partnership during spring break. I thought I might go to Africa.”

Dean almost wanted to roll his eyes, because that was such a _Cas_ answer. “That’s a mission trip, not a vacation.”

“I’ve answered the question.”

Before Dean could say _you didn’t_ , Cas pulled back on a lever, and the boat lurched gently away from the dock. The boat idled as it trudged slowly onto the lake, Cas barely giving it any gas for what felt like forever. The ripples it left behind frothed and churned, but didn’t disrupt the water with any substantial waves. Dean was pretty sure the boat had more power than that.

“Come on, man. Punch it!” he called over the low rumble of the engine.

“It’s a no wake zone,” Cas called back, and Dean rolled his eyes. At this rate, they wouldn’t get anywhere. The sun had drifted lower to the horizon, but it was still white hot and beat down on the deck to heat it up to the point of burning. Dean felt sweat collecting at the small of his back where he was leaning against the seat. He wished he’d brought some swim trunks. Maybe then he’d be able to take a dip.

The boathouse slunk away in the distance, and after a few more minutes, the engine grew louder, and Cas sped up. Instantly, the wind whipped around them, brushing through Dean’s hair and flapping against his eardrums. He let out a whoop, and yelled, “That’s more like it!”

Cas looked over his shoulder, a gummy, lopsided smile on his face. The windshield was protecting him from the brunt of the wind, but the top of his hair was sticking up and fluttering.

Dean watched the Novak house get lost in the distance, until even the shoreline was faint and a far away smudge of green. The smell of gasoline from the engine permeated the baking air, and the wake was ripping out from under the boat in gyrating swirls. Cas cut the wheel to turn, and Dean automatically panicked and grabbed hold of the railing as the side dipped closer to the water. Cas laughed wickedly, and Dean held up his middle finger.

As they sliced through their own wake, the boat bounced on the waves and came back down to a spray that kicked up onto the bow’s deck. Dean’s insides felt like they were being juggled every time the boat lifted from the water, but it was more fun than it was nerve-wracking.

After a little while, Dean carefully side-stepped up to the bow, gripping the railings tightly the whole way so he wouldn’t get thrown into the water, and he scrambled onto one of the padded seats to watch the trees and houses along the lake disappear behind them. The wind was more powerful up there, and it slapped against his face with enough force to make his eyes water, but the turbulence was also a lot greater, kind of reminiscent of a rollercoaster.

Dean pointed with the directions towards the general area of the lake where the old fishing dock was, but it was harder to do than he thought. Everything looked different on the water. It was tough to get his bearings, but he thought they were headed in the right direction. If anything, they’d gone around the bend away from where the fancy mansions were located, so they were at least in the right vicinity.

By that time, the sun was growing weaker, dying the air with thick golden honey that made the glare off the water glint and wink as it darkened into an undulating black. Dean chanced a look behind him at Cas, who was squinting straight ahead as he focused on steering. His tanned skin was cast in amber, seeming to radiate from within, and even with a few feet between them, Dean could see the color of his eyes, bluer than the lake. His scruff had grown in some as the day wore on, and his hair had gotten a little longer than Dean was used to over the last few weeks. He looked like some kind of god, and Dean suddenly felt as if the sun were tethered to the back of their boat so they could pull it to the separate horizon. The moon was already out, faint and waxing in the sky, hanging just over Cas’ shoulder.

Dean knew he was staring. He just couldn’t stop.

It was a shame that he wouldn’t be able to see more of Cas in the summer sun. He bet he looked good in the heat—all rolled sleeves and bare legs, sweat rolling down his temples and flushed cheeks. And that only led to Dean thinking of other ways he could get Cas sweaty and flushed and wearing significantly less layers.

He rattled his head, telling himself to behave.

He faced forward again, dreading the sunset. He wasn’t ready to leave Cas yet. He wasn’t ready for night to come, their goodbyes along with it.

Soon, Dean was completely lost, and Cas let the boat idle and drift on the water as he caught his bearings. He was pretty sure the dock was around there somewhere. Cas joined him on the bow, sitting with his legs tucked under him. Dean reclined back on his elbows, closed his eyes, and lifted his chin towards the sun. The world around him rocked dreamily with the current.

“You’re supposed to be figuring out where we are,” Cas reminded him.

“I’m thinking,” Dean said, even though it was a lie. He slipped his elbows out from under him and laid down on the deck. It took a second, but then he felt Cas stretch out beside him.

“Dean,” he said, and Dean cracked an eye open. The sun was too low now, and he had to hold his palm up to shield his eyes against the light.

Cas was on his back, his hands folded over his stomach and his head turned in Dean’s direction. There were small beads of sweat collecting on his hairline, and Dean thought it had no business being this hot during sunset, especially so early in the season. But he also thought it was worth it for the painful, dull ache in his heart in wanting to wipe the sweat off Cas’ brow with his thumb.

Maybe he was a glutton for punishment.

“Why me?” Cas asked.

The question caught Dean off guard, mostly because he didn’t know what he was being asked. But, whatever the specifics were, he was pretty sure the answer was the same across the board: _because I love you, you asshole_.

Cas must have seen his confusion, because he clarified, “Why did you want to spend your final day with me?”

Dean had been right about his answer, but he couldn’t really say that aloud, just like he couldn’t earlier at the diner. He shrugged instead, and looked back up at the pink-tinged clouds high up in the sky. “Well, we’re not gonna see each other for a while. Thought it’d be fun. Kinda like we’re packing a whole summer into one day.”

Cas hummed thoughtfully and looked away, turning his face skyward. Dean glanced at him out of the corner of his eyes to watch for a reaction. Cas’ mouth was pulled down into a frown, but Dean couldn’t see any disappointment on his face from the angle, if it was there at all.

“Well, then,” he said, “it’s been an eventful summer.”

Dean pushed a smile, but it was filled with regret. He wished Cas could come with him.

Cas rolled onto his side, probably misjudging their proximity because he ended up with his front pressed against Dean’s side. But he didn’t shift back or pull away. He rested his bent arm on Dean’s torso, his hand loosely placed on Dean’s chest. Dean lifted his head slightly to look down at it, surprised by the suddenness of it, but he didn’t say anything.

His pulse was screaming though.

“Now it’s your turn,” Cas said, and Dean remembered they were still in the middle of the game.

He put his head back against the deck, eyes turned to look at Cas. Above him, the first of the planets were blinking into the sky as little white dots. Dean slid his arm under Cas and curled it around his shoulders, and he felt Cas lock up in surprise, but only for a split second.

And Dean felt a few questions rising up his throat.

_Do you ever think about that time in my room, when we almost had sex? Did you want to? Do you still want to? Can I at least kiss you again, just to get me through the next few weeks?_

Cas looked down at him expectantly, but Dean didn’t know what he was waiting for. His eyes were moving too quickly around Dean’s face for it to be the next question of their game.

Dean tensed, too, as Charlie's words beat around in his skull. But she couldn't have been right. It was just wishful thinking. He was being stupid. He could prove it.

Mustering all his bravado, he brushed his knuckles along the top of Cas' arm, watching for any shift in his expression, expecting anger or annoyance or, most likely, confusion. As for Dean, he was terrified to see any of that, but he needed to see it anyway.

And then Cas inhaled unsteadily, his spine shuddering and his eyes fluttering closed. When he opened them again, he'd averted his gaze to Dean's chest with an expression that almost looked like shame.

And that . . . that was much scarier than rejection. Because it was hope, and he didn't know what he was supposed to do with that.

His fingers itched to lift Cas' chin up, to bring him into a kiss just to see if it would be reciprocated, to meet either death or glory.

Cas lifted himself up, leaving Dean's hand to slide away, the weight of him suddenly absent in a way that was a shock to Dean's system. Cas sat on the edge of the deck, his shoulders slumped so that he was crumpled in on himself. His back was to Dean. Dean sat up slowly, inwardly cursing himself. He shouldn't have done anything. He shouldn't have tried. Cas didn't want him. He was a dumbass if he didn't know that by now.

"Um," Cas said, only half turning his head. His voice sounded choked, but that could have just been because it was muffled by the angle, and awkward. "It's your turn," he said again.

Dean felt an uncomfortable heat in his cheeks and the tips of his ears went aflame. He rubbed at the back of his neck to try to sooth it. "Right," he said, but his voice came out all wrong. He cleared his throat quickly.

He looked around, fishing for something to ask. All he saw was the fancy boat they were sitting in, rocking them back and forth together on the lake that Cas' family mansion overlooked. Dean was still in Lawrence, but he felt a world away already. And he wondered, if Cas was just another guy from a normal family struggling to make end's meet, whether there'd be any hope for them at all.

"If there wasn't any Evangelist, Inc.," he started, not really knowing how to phrase his question even as it was coming out of his mouth, "No Charles or Michael Novak, no expectations—what'd you wanna do with your life?"

He watched the line of Cas' shoulders pull a little tauter, and then slacken again. Cas kept gazing out towards the sun, now so close to setting it appeared to be dipping down to take a swim in the lake. Above them, the sky on the opposite horizon was darkening.

"I don't know," he said slowly. "I never thought about it."

Dean knew that was bullshit. "Now that’s crap. Sure you have." He'd said before that he wanted to work in public outreach, and he volunteered at the orphanage like it was his job. Or he could be a history professor. Dean thought, if things were different, Cas could do some good in the world. Some real good. Maybe he still could, but he was too thick in the head to realize it.

Bristling, Cas said, tone laced with hard edges now, "It doesn't matter. There's no point in imagining some fantasy life."

Dean shrugged out his palms, even though Cas couldn't see it. "Humor me."

"Dean!" Cas yelled, his voice bouncing off the water. His tone was clipped, frustrated. He glanced over his shoulder to glare at Dean. "It doesn't matter."

Dean pressed his lips together as he regarded Cas. This topic hit a nerve for a reason. He knew Cas hated when he plucked at that particular string, but that only meant he should keep at it. It was important.

He scooted forward on the deck, the cushion slipping and squealing under the coarse fabric of his jeans, until he settled at Cas' side. "Look, I'm just trying to figure out why you're doing something you don't want to do."

Cas frowned, his jaw tensing, pissed off. At his sides, his fingers wrapped around the edge of the seat, and he shook his head gently. "I'm counting that as a question, which means you owe me two."

Dean decided to let that go. "Fine. Then answer it."

"You already know the answer," Cas snipped. He stood up, making the boat jounce a little. Without looking at Dean, he made his way around the deck towards the console. "Figure out where the dock is."

Dean sighed. He didn't want the day to end like this. "I wasn't trying to pick a fight," he said, turning to look after him. "I'm just lookin' out."

Cas paused momentarily, posture relaxing, the storm passing. He breathed out, fists loosening at his sides, "I know," and then continued walking.

Dean knew how to quit while he was ahead.

He turned his eyes back to the lake, and managed to figure out where they were in relation to the dock from the land markers on the opposite bank. The engine revved again with ear-rattling vibrations, sputtering water behind them, as Cas zipped forward in the right direction.

By the time they reached the dock, the light was almost completely gone, and the first spattering of stars blanketed the zenith. As they idled closer to shore, a rickety old wooden dock came into view, jutting out onto the water. In the low tide, a forest of tall grass stuck up along the sides, swaying lazily in the tiny waves. Beyond the dock was a strip of grass and a line of trees, a hiking path that Dean knew like the back of his hand just inside the woods.

Dean stood up, spreading his legs to keep his balance as the boat pulled up slowly along the dock. "Told'ya I'd find it!" he called over his shoulder. "Bobby used to take me fishing here whenever I visited as a kid."

He loved that spot. It was quiet, peaceful. It was close to the town, but just far enough away from money problems and Dad's expectations and his responsibilities towards Sam. He remembered Bobby teaching him how to fish, and how proud he'd been that time Dean caught a giant snapper. They fried it up for dinner that same night, and Dean had never enjoyed a meal so much.

Being out there was probably the only handful of times Dean felt like a normal kid.

When they got close enough, Dean jumped out of the boat and onto the dock, feeling its planks rattle under the abrupt pressure. He thought for a second it might splinter under his weight, but it held. Hopefully the boards weren't too rotted and water-decayed. It hit him just how long it had been since he was last there.

Cas tossed him one of the lines, and Dean tied the boat up to a post on the dock. After tossing the fenders over the side, Cas planted one foot on the side of the boat, and it drifted about a foot away from the edge, nothing but murky, brackish-scented water filling the gap. Dean held out a hand to help him get onto the dock, and Cas slid their palms together, tightening his hold as he stepped over the gap. It set Dean off his balance before he could catch himself, and the two of them stumbled into each other's space.

It was easy to stay that way, crowded against him with the thick fiery light in the inches separating them. It was easy to keep Cas' hand in his at their sides. It'd be easy, too, Dean thought, to kiss him, and he wanted to. Badly. He even felt himself gravitating forward slightly before catching himself.

Cas was looking down at his chest again, and Dean was just fine-tuned enough to him at that point to hear him breathing. He couldn't hear much of anything else—not the birds or the tree frogs chirping, not the lapping of the tide. They were all background noise. His pulse was slamming too loudly in his ears.

"Dean," Cas said, voice low. He seemed a little nervous. "If you . . . cared for someone . . ."

Dean's chest seized up.

Cas swallowed thickly and kept going. "But you knew it wouldn't work . . . would you continue to love them?"

 _Love_.

Dean's grip tightened around Cas' hand before he knew what he was doing. He found his lips were parted, but he didn't trust himself to speak.

 _Love_.

Dean was in a dream.

He told himself Cas wasn't talking about him. He wasn't that lucky. But the rush of vertigo he was experiencing told him differently. For a second, he thought he'd fallen in the lake and was submerged, weightless under the surface.

 _Love_.

The word spread warmth throughout him. He could drown in it.

He said, "I don't really think I have a choice."

Cas' eyes turned big and sad as he searched Dean's face, like that wasn’t the answer he’d been hoping for. And Dean was suddenly unsure. He didn't know if he was sinking further into the dark, icy depths or if he was coming up for air.

Cas slipped his hand out of Dean's and walked across the dock towards the bank. His footsteps thumped dully against the wood, keeping time with the slight knock of the side of the boat against the fenders. Dean stared after him, waiting for Cas to say something—to do something—anything—to either make him the happiest guy alive or cause all his hopes to come crashing down around him. Either one would be better than this twisting bundle of nerves pushing its way up from Dean's stomach to his throat.

But Cas left him hanging. He sat down on the grass and squinted out vacantly towards the lake. Dean caught his breath.

Cas brought his knees up to his chest, hugging them. “Are you looking forward to your trip?” he asked suddenly.

It really wasn’t the follow up Dean was expecting to hear, and it threw him momentarily. But he recovered and nodded. He bent down and picked a flat stone off the ground. He tossed it up and down in his hand before attempting to skip it off the water. It fell flat, sinking instantly. He frowned.

“Yeah. You know—it’ll be good. Quality family time or whatever.”

Giving up on skipping stones, he wandered over to Cas and sat down next to him on the dry grass. He stretched out his legs in front of him and leaned back onto one elbow, facing Cas. He’d gravitated close to him, and was able to feel the body heat coming off of him. The grass underneath him was brittle, sharp spikes cutting through his jeans to prick his legs. He wiped the dirt off his hands from supporting himself as he sat on his jeans, and frowned at the pebbled indentations it left on the heel of his palm.

He shrugged, peering up at Cas from the angle. “Might help Sammy and Dad. I mean, they can’t argue the _whole_ time.” He hoped not, anyway. “And, I dunno. I’ve always wanted to be out with my dad on the road.”

“You’re restless,” Cas guessed.

“Isn’t everybody?”

Cas’ eyes were downcast now, and Dean wondered if he’d said something wrong.

“What?”

“Nothing. And that’s two questions.”

Damn, he was right. Dean hadn’t even noticed, but it was the least of his worries, especially with Cas looking like that.

“Cas.”

Cas sighed. “Gabriel was restless. So was Anna. I—Anna still sends me a Christmas card every year. I believe I've told you that.” He smiled sadly, and it looked more like a grimace. “She lives in New York. She’s married. She and her husband have a Pomeranian.”

Dean tried not to wince at her choice of dog, especially because of the downtrodden, wistful tone in Cas’ voice.

“That’s the only communication I get from her. I’ve written her back, but she never returns my letters,” he went on. “And Gabriel . . . I dunno. I haven’t heard from him since he left. He could be dead for all I know. But, either way, they’re both—,” he gestured out with his hands, forming two fists and then opening them quickly. “Gone.”

Dean knew what Cas was getting at. Hell, he understood it better than anyone. “And you’re still here.”

Cas nodded, and Dean couldn’t stand how defeated he seemed in that moment. He didn’t get it. Why would anyone leave Cas?

“Well, like I said before, buddy, it’s their loss,” Dean told him, and Cas looked surprised. His attention shot back to Dean and didn’t waver. “And they’re the ones who should feel sorry for themselves, not you. I mean, they’re the ones who screwed up. You don’t just leave your family behind. Especially—.”

He stopped himself from saying _someone like you_. It was too much. He swallowed, and rephrased his thoughts.

“I just mean . . . I wouldn’t ditch you.”

Cas pressed his lips into a tight line, his eyes going big and sad. “I appreciate the sentiment, Dean, but you’re going away for the entire summer.”

Okay, he had him there. Dean must have sounded like a hypocrite. “Okay,” he leveled. “But I’m coming back.”

He hoped that helped. It helped him, sometimes, when John left him alone. It was easier, knowing he’d come back one day.

“Yes,” Cas said, seeming fractionally lighter than before. “You are.”

“And besides,” Dean told him, “you’ll probably get up to a whole bunch of crap this summer with Jack and Claire and—,” he hated himself for faltering here, “Meg.” Recovering, he continued, “You won’t even know I’m gone.”

His own words sliced into him, but he tried to hide it.

To that, Cas looked alarmed. “That’s not true.”

“Oh, come on.”

“It’s not,” Cas told him severely. “How could you think that, Dean? Even now, when Balthazar drags me somewhere or—when I’m with Meg . . .” He searched Dean’s face, seeming to marshal his thoughts. Dean had no idea what he was going to say, and he couldn’t quite believe it when he heard, “Much of the time . . . I wish I were with you.”

Dean felt his lips part, the dead skin on them sticking together in the humidity. He didn’t know what to say in response. He didn’t know what words there were for this feeling ballooning his chest. Except maybe . . .

_I love him._

_I love him._

_I love him._

And he didn’t want to leave him. He wanted to stay at that lake until it froze over with winter’s snows.

And it was crazy, right? To think Charlie might be right about Cas liking him back? To think Sam’s teases were real, or Meg’s jealousy valid? It was nuts. Way too hopeful. More luck than Dean had ever had.

Dean tried to muster his thoughts, to say something—anything.

But then Cas looked back out at the lake, squinting at the sky. “You have one question left,” he said. “I have two.”

For a long time, Dean just stared at Cas’ profile in the dying light. The sunset caught on the tips of his hair, making them shine like a halo, and his features were becoming indistinct by the peach-colored darkness. Dean said, “Shoot.”

Cas shuffled a little. He looked off at the water, his arms tightening around his knees. He opened his mouth to say something, but then seemed to reconsider. Finally, he asked, “Is there anything else you planned for us to do before you leave?”

The reminder was like a bucket of ice water poured down Dean’s back.

Dean sat up on the grass, trying to push past the butterflies flapping around his stomach. “No. I dunno.” There wasn’t much to do in Lawrence. He’d run out of ideas, but he didn’t want to say goodbye yet. He plucked a few shards of grass from the earth, pulling them out by the root, and tossed them back to the ground. His eyes caught the boat swaying in the waves next to the dock. “We could take that thing back.”

Cas nodded, still looking straight ahead. “Now it’s your turn.”

Dean thought of all the questions he wanted to ask throughout the course of the day. He didn’t want to know the answer to any of them, because he knew he wouldn’t like them. He knew they wouldn’t be what he wanted. But he felt like he needed to ask them—at least one of them. Before he left.

He didn’t know how different things would be when he got back.

He felt the questions climbing up from his chest, hot and constricting, all at once, and then they bottlenecked in his throat. What came out was a pushed laugh around a slanted smile. He asked, “What d’you say we order a few pizzas, raid your dad’s liquor cabinet and crash at Casa Novak for the night?”

Cas didn’t seem to mind that idea. He even smiled—sort of. Dean could barely make it out as the sun dipped lower and the air turned smoke-gray. “I’d like that.” Cas turned his head to meet Dean’s eyes again. “If that’s what you want.”

Dean didn’t know how to tell him that all he wanted was to spend time with him.

///

There were plenty of bedrooms in the house—one for each of his brothers and sisters, the master bedroom, and two guest rooms—but Castiel didn’t want to spend a second apart from Dean. He knew he would have plenty of days without him very soon, and perhaps he was a bit greedy in hoarding what time he could get now, as if he could store it away for later like a chipmunk stored acorns for hibernation.

They both stayed in Castiel’s childhood bedroom that night, and Castiel tried not to think about what happened the last time they’d shared a bed. This bed was smaller than Dean’s mattress, which meant their bodies rested closer together, but Dean didn’t seem to mind the lack of space. He curled up against Castiel’s side, his head not quite resting on Castiel’s shoulder, but close enough that his forehead was touching his arm.

Castiel’s arm was crushed beneath him, splayed out on the bed. Pins and needles were forming in it from lack of circulation, but he didn’t care. He didn’t know if he was allowed to circle Dean with it. He very much wanted to. He’d take what he could get.

It was late, and his eyes drooped, his body heavy around him. He wanted to sleep, but he also wanted to remain conscious and enjoy the precious dwindling hours he had with Dean so close to him. He wanted to watch Dean as he slept, to take it all in and commit it to memory. He felt as if he were about to lose Dean forever, which was ridiculous, because Dean would come back. He _said_ he was coming back.

Somehow, Castiel just couldn’t convince himself of that fact.

He wanted to hold Dean closer, to make him stay. Because there he was now, the sounds of his even breaths filling up the silent space and making sense of all of Castiel’s childhood doubts and insecurities. On most nights, he’d lie away in this very bed and feel lonely. He didn’t feel that way now.

“Cas?” Dean asked suddenly, voice soft with exhaustion and quiet as if to not be overheard by the empty hallways and closed doors. “You still got one question.”

“Oh. Um.” In truth, Castiel had mostly forgotten all about the game. He didn’t think he’d ever exhaust all the questions he wanted to ask Dean, or all the ways he wanted to know him. But he couldn’t ask the ones he wanted to.

He thought on it for a moment, a frenzy of inquiries running through his head, all of them much too vulnerable. He thought, maybe, in the stillness of the night and the closeness of their bodies, he could get away with one. Just one.

He could ask Dean if he could kiss him—just once, just to tide him over for the summer ahead.

Or he could ask him this: _Do you have to go?_

He shook the thought away. It was best not to ruin the moment.

Perhaps it was anticlimactic, but this is what he landed on: “What’s _your_ favorite color?”

Dean was quiet for a long time, and Castiel wondered if he’d fallen asleep.

And then, “Blue.”

Castiel didn’t know what to say to that. Even though he was lying down, he felt oddly as though he were falling, like a dream where he tumbled from a ledge and woke up before hitting the ground. Only, he wasn’t waking up, and the thought of the earth below terrified him.

But the fall? At first, it had been thrilling. And now, he’d been falling for so long, it made him calm.

“Cas?”

“Yes, Dean?”

“Can I ask you twenty-second question?”

Castiel let out a breath through his nose, his eyes sliding closed beyond his control, and it seemed too much of an effort to open them again. “I don’t think the game works that way.”

“Yeah, I know, but . . . Can I?”

There was something so small about the way he said it, like the question was too big for his body to hold.

“Of course.”

Dean was quiet and completely still for a moment. And then, “You ever wish things were different? You know, between you and me?”

Castiel was certain he was misinterpreting Dean’s meaning, and he wasn’t sure why Dean was asking it. Maybe because it was so late at night, in that time where the world held its breath and anything was possible, where all walls and defenses were lowered. There, on that bed in that bedroom in that house, they might as well have been the only two people on the planet.

Castiel shifted, pulling his arm out from under Dean and rolling to his side to face him. Dean looked surprised suddenly, eyes wide and caught, like he hadn’t intended this conversation to be face-to-face.

“Different how?” Castiel asked, resting his temple on the pillow.

To Dean’s credit, he didn’t look away, but his voice did lower even further. “I dunno. Just different.”

Castiel still didn’t understand.

Dean shook his head, trying to smile. “Forget it. It’s dumb.”

“Dean, wait,” Castiel said before Dean could turn away. Dean settled again, but looked anything but relaxed. Castiel knew he had to answer the question, he just wasn’t sure how—or why.

He supposed, if he did alter anything in their past, there was no guarantee they’d end up where they were now. And maybe Castiel would prefer it if he were able to kiss Dean, to tell him he loved him, but it wasn’t important, not when faced with not having him at all.

He said, “I wouldn’t change a thing.”

He watched that process on Dean’s face, a dozen micro-expressions playing on his lips and in his impossibly expressive eyes before he settled on something as gentle as morning sunlight. “Me, neither,” he said.

Castiel smiled, the barest of tugs on his lips, and rolled over to the other side. And, maybe because it was so late and vulnerable, maybe because they were the only people in the world, maybe because he would miss Dean terribly, maybe because there was nothing to stop him, he reached behind him and grabbed Dean’s wrist. He guided Dean’s arm around him, and soon enough the press of Dean’s chest was against his back.

He closed his eyes to it, feeling the steady beat of Dean’s heart on his spine and the rise and fall of the breath in his belly. It sent him swiftly, comfortably, warmly to the brink of sleep.

“You know, Cas,” Dean whispered into his hair so quietly that Castiel thought he might have been dreaming it, “that guy who hit on you at that bar? I bet he thinks about you sometimes, too.”

It should have made Castiel nervous. It made him calm.

His smile unfolded as slow as springtime, even though Dean couldn’t see it. “Yeah?”

He felt Dean nod. “Yeah. Actually, I bet it’s all the time.”

If this was a dream, it was the best one Castiel ever had.

“ _Dean_.”

After some time, he felt Dean touch his forehead to the back of his neck. He fell asleep.

///

It was still dark out when Dean woke up. He wasn’t really too sure what had woken him up, anyway, except for maybe the sticky, weighted warmth around him. It was a little uncomfortable, until he realized Cas was the thing responsible for it.

Cas must have rolled over in his sleep, because he was facing Dean now, his arms wrapped around Dean’s torso, one a lump under Dean’s ribcage and the other hanging loosely by the elbow off of Dean’s hip. Their bodies were pushed together from chest to waist, and their ankles folded around each other. Dean got a face full of hair because of the way Cas’ forehead was dipped onto his shoulder.

And the warmth didn’t seem so bad anymore.

Dean realized he had his own arm on Cas, fingers resting in the divots between his ribs at the place where his shirt was rucked up. His other was bent beneath his pillow and head. He blinked around the room, his eyes adjusting to the darkness until shadows of tree limbs and leaves swayed on the walls.

Reluctantly, he moved his hand from Cas and brought up his wrist to check the fancy watch Cas had given him for Christmas. The minute hand was moving dangerously close to 5:30 AM, and Dean knew he had to get up if he wanted to be on the road by six. He’d still have to drop Cas off at his apartment before swinging home to throw the rest of his crap into his duffel and get Sam.

He was so torn. Because, as much as his skin buzzed with excitement at the prospect of the trip, he was content to stay right there with Cas against him, listening to Cas’ sigh in sleep.

He only allowed himself another minute before touching his palm to the back of Cas’ hair and saying his name. “Cas, wake up. I gotta get going.”

Cas drew in a breath as he woke up, and let it out in a hum. He shuffled a little, but not enough to draw away from Dean’s arms. He did tilt his neck back, though, to blink bleary at Dean. “What?” he mumbled, and Dean’s chest thudded with a dull ache.

“It’s 5:30. I have to get going,” Dean told him again.

At first, it looked like Cas had no idea what he was talking about, but then consciousness caught up with him, and he nodded shortly. “Okay.” He didn’t get up, though. He stretched out like a cat against Dean, body tightening and pushing into Dean’s hips, until it slackened again and he grunted.

Dean wanted to kiss him, but he settled for patting the back of Cas’ head gently. He knew he should get up, for more reasons than one. Because this was dangerous, if last time was anything to go by. It wasn’t the falling asleep together that proved disastrous. It was the waking up.

“Come on,” Dean said, and it took every ounce of willpower he had to extract himself, especially when Cas let out a small sound of protest.

Dean kicked his legs over the side of the bed and brought his arms high over his head to stretch. He twisted this way and that, feeling his back pop with stiffness from sleeping. He dragged himself to his feet and started getting dressed.

By the time he was hopping into his jeans—stiff and grainy feeling from sweating in them all day yesterday—Cas hadn’t moved. He’d shoved his nose into his pillow, his hair wild and askew above it, and Dean wondered how he was breathing. Dean sat on the bed and slipped on his boots, and that’s when he realized Cas had fallen asleep again.

Whenever Sam did that, it annoyed him. But Dean could only smirk as he shook his head fondly at Cas. He twisted around to shake Cas’ shoulder. “Come on, dude. I’ll drive you home and you can go right back to bed.”

Cas groaned again, turning his face more into the pillow.

“Cas. You’re gonna suffocate yourself.”

Cas rolled onto his back, sighed, and then went back on his side. His eyes were still skewed shut. He hummed and said, voice low and raspy from lack of use, “Come back.”

Dean tensed his jaw. It was so tempting.

But Cas was his friend. You don’t miss trips of a lifetime for friends. He had to remind himself that.

“No can do, buddy.”

“No, Dean,” Cas said, sounding suddenly awake. He lifted himself up on his elbows, shooting Dean a serious look despite the fact that his lids were still half-closed with sleep. His eyes looked dark purple in the lack of light. He said, “Come back.”

When he understood what Cas meant, Dean felt his expression soften in wonder. His lips parted dumbly, and the thought hit him: _He loves you back_.

It came out of nowhere. As soon as it was gone, Dean doubted it was true. But in that split second moment, he was so sure. He wished he could feel like that all the time.

“You know I will, Cas,” he promised gently.

Cas nodded, looked away. He rolled to his other side and lifted up the blankets to get out of bed. While he dressed, Dean made the bed. Then, they headed downstairs and out the front door. The night had brought slightly cooler air than yesterday, but no breeze, and it was still thick and claustrophobic. Dean felt sluggish. Behind him, Cas yawned, and passed it on to Dean before they got into the car.

When they pulled up to the curb outside of Cas’ building, the sun was peeking over the clouds to color the air with pink lemonade. Dean put the Impala in park and let the engine idle. Its rumble filled up the inside of the cab and bled out into the streets through the open windows. It swallowed the birdsongs and the distant droning of an unseen lawn mower of someone ambitious enough to start their Sunday early. There were other cars parked sporadically on the street, but there wasn’t a single other person to be seen. That was normal for a college town during the summer, but it still made Dean’s fists tighten around the leather of the steering wheel.

It felt like everyone in town had disappeared into thin air, leaving only the two of them.

Cas cleared his throat after a few seconds of silence. He hadn’t said anything on the ride back; neither had Dean. He hadn’t even turned on the radio.

“Well,” Cas began, sounding stiffer than Dean had heard in a long time. “Have a safe trip, Dean. Tell Sam I said the same.”

Dean nodded, ignoring the lurch in his gut that told him this was his last chance to tell Cas how he felt. “Yeah. Sure thing, Cas. You, uh, have a good summer.” Just then, he remembered the bag in his backseat. “Oh, hey—.” Cas looked at him expectantly, his palms upturned on his lap, when Dean reached over the backseat and brought the heavy plastic bag over.

“Thought you could use this while I was away.”

He wished he wasn’t so awkward when he handed the bag to Cas, who tentatively took it with both hands like he was handling porcelain. He set the bag between his knees and frowned in confusion down into it. He reached in and pulled out a DVD— _Dirty Harry_ —with one hand and a book—the _Time Machine_ —with the other.

“Think of it like a summer reading list. You’re a nerd. You like that kind of shit,” Dean told him, grinning as he waited for Cas’ reaction. There were more DVD’s and books inside the bag, full of all the stuff Cas desperately needed to catch up on.

“There’s some tunes in there, too. Most important—.” He reached over and opened the glove compartment, trying his damndest to ignore the heat coming off Cas’ body at the proximity. His hand connected with something plastic, and he took it out, offering it to him.

“Zeppelin,” he explained. He made the tape himself, and put all his favorite Zeppelin tracks on it. It’d taken forever to do, but it was worth every second.

Cas took the tape and set it neatly inside the bag. “Thank you, Dean,” he said, his eyes downcast as he stared inside. Dean felt his heart quicken, happy that Cas liked the gift. “If this is a summer reading list, I’ll be sure to provide you with my thoughts in essay form come September.”

Dean snorted. “Okay, _Dead Poet’s Society_.”

Cas turned to him, again confused.

“It’s in the bag,” Dean told him. “You’ll figure it out.”

“Okay, Dean. If that’s what you want.”

There was another long pause, into which Dean felt the smile slackening from his face. Cas was regarding him like they were never going to see each other again, and it made Dean’s head swim. It felt like goodbye, which was stupid. Dean would only be gone a month—two, tops. It wasn’t this hard to say bye to Charlie or Benny, or even Bobby, Ellen, and Jo for that matter.

“I’ll, uh, text you,” Dean promised. In the murky air, he felt like he was suffocating. “And I’ll send you a picture of me kicking Sammy off the side of the Grand Canyon.”

The shadow of a smile tugged at Cas’ lips.

“Judging by Sam’s height, I think you may find more than you bargained for in that fight,” Cas joked.

“Hey, no way. I’m still the older brother. I could still kick his ass.”

Cas laughed, and suddenly Dean _really_ didn’t care if he ever made it to the Grand Canyon at all. Maybe staying was better.

But then Cas nodded solemnly at him and pushed the car door open. The frame shook slightly when he closed it again, and Dean thought that was it. But Cas turned around and bent down, peering inside. He wrapped a palm around the door over the opened window.

Dean raised his hand in a motionless wave. “See ya later, Cas.”

Cas didn’t say anything. In response, he lifted his fingers from the door in a small wave of his own, face somber. He stood up straight again and started up the walkway to his building’s door. The bag Dean had given him was clutched in his hand at his side, swinging only slightly with his movements.

Dean told himself not to watch him. He put the car into drive, foot still on the brake, and then clicked on the radio. Through static, the soft melody of the Beatles sounded from the radio.

 _Hey, Jude, don’t let me down_.

His mom loved that song. Every time he heard it, he still imagined her voice, as if guiding him.

 _You have found her, now go and get her_.

Screw it.

Dean put the car back into park and didn’t bother to kill the engine. He couldn’t stall too much, and he sure as hell couldn’t think about what he was doing. He needed to act now, before he chickened out again.

He rushed around the car, calling out for Cas. Cas was at the door now, his hand hovering over the keypad to put in the unlock code. He looked back at Dean, eyebrows pinched and chapped lips parted and blue eyes slits against the burgeoning daylight.

Dean’s pulse was beating the crap out of him so much he thought it’d bruise his insides, and his stomach was sloshing enough to make him feel like he was going to vomit all over the pristinely laid bricks of that fancy apartment complex. His knees felt like they might give out on him at any second just to prevent him from doing this.

And Cas was still staring at him, waiting silently until Dean was standing in front of him.

Dean took in a deep breath, trying not to appear terrified. He knew it was hot, but he cupped both his hands to Cas’ jaw, feeling the sheen on his skin and the stubble on his cheeks. Cas was taken aback for a moment, his eyes going wide and his head jerking back like he wasn’t sure if Dean was about to hit him instead of hold him. But he settled quickly, and Dean stared at him hard, giving him more than enough time to run away if he wanted to.

But Cas didn’t go anywhere.

“I want what you want,” Dean told him.

Then, he dipped his head forward and let his eyes slip shut. He pressed his lips to Cas’, salty with sweat and rough with dryness, and he tried to keep it gentle, to not deepen the kiss no matter how much he wanted to. He felt Cas tense and gasp, and for a heart-stopping second, he thought he’d ruined everything. And then Cas’ shoulders dropped, and his arms went around Dean’s waist, the bag filled with movies and music bumping against Dean’s ass.

He pulled Dean in closer against him, chest to chest, Dean’s leg braced itself between Cas’ knees as he stumbled to keep his balance. And Cas kissed him back.

Dean felt the rays of the light on his skin, saw red and yellow behind his eyelids. He brushed his thumbs along Cas’ cheekbones and felt him sigh and smile against his lips. Dean opened his eyes just a little, just to see Cas’ long black lashes resting against his tanned skin as they kissed. The sight made his skin prickle despite the humidity.

When they broke apart to breathe, Dean tipped his forehead against Cas’, staying close, sharing the air. Cas’ arms were still around him, but Dean’s hands had moved down to rest on Cas’ chest.

He let out a breath of laughter, and Cas followed, his sounding thick. Dean couldn’t stop laughing. It bubbled out of him, like the joy caused too much pressure to hold inside. He threw his head back and whooped. Cas took the opportunity to press his lips to his chin.

And that tamed Dean’s laughter real quick.

But there was still a slight grin on his face when he pecked Cas’ lips again. Cas hummed against him.

The streetlamps were blinking off up and down the road. The Impala’s driver’s door was still open; the Beatles had stopped playing, and instead the fast paced voice of an advertisement, rattling off some drug's side effects, that seemed strange and otherworldly at such an early hour drifted over, but Dean couldn’t hear what it was saying. The whoosh of tires on asphalt sounded, and the car gave the Impala a wide berth to avoid the door. It reminded Dean that there was a world outside, after all, and they were a part of it.

“I gotta go,” he said softly into the space between them.

Cas sucked in a breath. He smelled like heat and perspiration and fresh air. He nodded, but his arms tightened around him. His hand flattened against the dip in Dean’s spine, hot through the thin layer of Dean’s t-shirt. “ _Dean_.”

The sound of his name said like _that_ sent a shiver up his back.

“I gotta go,” Dean said again, laughter in his tone. His hands came up again to cradle Cas’ neck, and he pressed another kiss to his temple, and another against his mouth. Cas accepted it easily, and chased him when he leaned back again. “Cas. I gotta go.”

Reluctantly, he tore himself away, his hand running down Cas’ arm until their fingers connected. He walked backwards, their arms reaching out towards each other so they could keep holding on for as long as they could. In his other hand, Cas was still clutching the bag like a lifeline.

Only after the very tips of their fingers parted, Dean let his arm fall to his side. His cheeks were hurting with how wide he was smiling, and Cas wasn’t smiling, but his eyes beamed and traced over Dean like he wanted to memorize everything about this moment. And, if Cas asked him to, Dean would stay.

But Sam and Dad were waiting, and he had to go.

“I’ll call you,” Dean promised. He tripped backwards a little when his heel connected with a raised brick on the walkway. It made him rip his eyes from Cas, but only momentarily.

“I’ll wait,” Cas told him like it was the most important thing in the world.

Dean ran his hand through his hair, messing up the remnants of the gel and leaving his fingers sticky with sweat. He finally turned around and walked around his car. The ads were still playing when he closed the door and put it back into drive.

He ducked down and waved at Cas one more time. Cas waved back. When Dean drove off, he honked the horn twice and let out another whoop of laughter. It was drowned out by the wind rattling against the metal and hitting his cheeks. He put two fingers to his lips, still able to feel Cas’ mouth on his.

It didn’t feel so much like goodbye anymore. It felt like the start of something.


	11. Chapter 11

It had been exactly one week, one day, eight hours, and twenty-four minutes since Dean had left on his trip. One week, one day, eight hours, and twenty-four minutes since they’d kissed.

And, somehow, in that one week, one day, eight hours, and twenty-four minutes, the world kept turning.

Castiel was in a lecture, sitting in the second row of the classroom while his professor elaborated on the bullet points on the screen at the front of the room. He maintained the knowledge just long enough to scribble down notes, and then it was gone again—in one ear and out the other. Hopefully, he’d retain the information in time for his test. He’d only been in class for a week and already he had an exam on Friday due to the summer semester’s accelerated schedule.

It was going by too swiftly.

The rest of his life, however, was not.

One week, one day, eight hours, and twenty- _five_ minutes, now.

The front pocket of his pants began to vibrate, sending out a soft hum that thankfully didn’t attract any looks from his fellow classmates and professor. He nearly dropped his pen at the surprise of it, his pulse picking up in anticipation. No one ever called him, and he hoped that meant it was Dean.

As promised, Dean had tried to call him yesterday from Seattle, but Castiel had been in church with his family and had missed the call. He attempted to return it, but it went to Dean’s voicemail. He had received some texts and photos throughout the week, his favorite so far being of Dean standing inside a hollowed out trunk of a redwood in San Francisco. Dean had looked so happy in it, and Castiel wanted to print it out and frame it, but he instead set it as his phone’s background.

But actual phone calls were rare, and Castiel didn’t want to miss another.

Checking that his professor wasn’t looking at him, he reached into his pocket and pulled his phone halfway out, peering down at the screen. It was a video call, and the camera of his cell was pointing upward to show the underside of his desk and the fluorescent lights on the ceiling. And the call was from Dean.

Castiel tried not to stand up too quickly to excuse himself, but he thought he failed because some of the people around him flickered their eyes towards him with disinterest. His knee had connected to the attached desk of his seat, making it jump up on the hinges and clatter back down. His pen rolled off to the floor, but it didn’t matter. He’d find it later. His professor didn’t miss a beat, still droning on as Castiel walked as quickly as he could to the door without causing a distraction. With any luck, people would think he was going to the bathroom, but he was certain his true reason for leaving the room was written in flashing lights over his head.

_Please excuse me; the love of my life is calling!_

His phone was clutched in his hand, still vibrating but he didn’t know for how much longer. Anxiety ratcheted thickly up his throat, and the seconds were suddenly moving by far too quickly. He was hardly in the hallway, door not yet closed completely behind him, when he picked up the call and held it at eye-level.

When the picture popped up, Dean’s face was suddenly filling his screen. He was outside. Castiel could see the sun beating down on him and the blue of the sky behind him, but he couldn’t see anything else. Dean was wearing dark sunglasses, which unfortunately shielded the forest green of his eyes, but they framed his face very well. Castiel could see his own face on Dean’s phone reflected in them.

“Dean.” He sounded out of breath, like he’d just run a marathon. His heart was still pumping in his chest. He couldn’t believe he’d answered in time.

A smile grew on Dean’s lips, wide and toothy, showing his canines. “Was startin’ to think you weren’t gonna pick up.” His voice was deep and laced with its usual teasing litany, and Castiel hadn’t realized how much he’d missed hearing it.

“I was in class.” It wasn’t until then that Castiel saw his own smile staring back at him in the tiny box at the bottom of the screen. “Where are you?”

“Hang on.” Dean held out the phone a little further away from his face, his chin scrunching back a little as he looked intently down at the display. A second later, the image flipped to show the view Dean was overlooking. He appeared to be on some kind of bridge, and beneath him there was a gushing, powerful river with a gigantic structure in the center of it.

“You’re at the Hoover Dam,” Castiel said. The image flipped back to Dean.

“Sam’s idea,” he said dryly. “Him and Dad are down there now. I wanted to get a bird’s eye instead of sitting through some snooze-fest tour. Views ain’t bad, though.”

Castiel chuckled softly. “You should really be on the tour, Dean. It’s fascinating, the way it was built.”

“It’s hydraulics, Cas, not rocket science.”

Castiel shook his head slightly. He always thought that, if Dean had attended college, he would be an engineer. It came so naturally to him.

“Tell ya what, I’ll get you a souvenir,” Dean told him, the picture turning choppy and freezing up for a moment.

Castiel’s heart sank, his brows knitting together. “Dean? Dean, you froze up.”

Dean didn’t appear to have heard him. He continued speaking: “We’re headed to Arizona now, just made a pit-stop here. Think we might hit up—and then—to—. Hear Sedona’s nice.” There was a rustling of wind overlaying his voice.

The screen grayed out, giving Castiel a message that read _poor connection_.

“Dean.” Castiel tapped the screen, trying to jolt it back into life, but all it did was make the menu banner at the bottom pop up.

Dean wasn’t speaking anymore, and that could only mean the connection had been lost completely. Not long after, the call dropped.

“Damn it,” he growled, just as two girls walked by him in the hall. They gave him side-glances, and he wondered how harried and disappointed he must have looked. He tried to rearrange his expression into something pleasant, but they didn’t seem interested. They kept walking.

He went into his recent calls and dialed Dean back. It didn’t take long for Dean to pick up and ask, “What happened? You hang up on me?”

“You froze,” Castiel told him, terrified that it would happen again. The video was still lagging.

“Yeah, service kinda sucks out here,” Dean explained. “I got like, two bars. Can you see me?”

Castiel nodded, wondering if Dean’s image of him was having the same issues. “Yes.”

“Okay. Well, I can try you back when we get some place—better coverage,” he said. “Your class still—on?”

There were enough words for Castiel to understand his meaning, and he didn’t want to go back to class. He didn’t want Dean to call him back later, whether that meant a few hours or a few days. He wanted to speak with him now.

“It’s almost over. I don’t have to go back inside.”

He waited for a response, and realized the image had frozen again. Dean was stuck in one place with his forehead lined as he squinted in the sun beneath his sunglasses, and his tongue half-darted out over his lips, which would be distracting if this whole situation wasn’t so frustrating. It was making Castiel’s blood boil.

Perhaps it would be for the best if Dean called him later. Carrying a conversation this way was impossible.

The call dropped again, and two seconds later, Castiel’s phone received an incoming voice call from Dean. It would have to do.

“Dean?”

“Yeah, can you hear me?”

“Yes.”

“Awesome. Hey.”

Castiel relaxed, pressing his back on the cool wall and knocking his head against it. “Hi.” He wished he could see Dean properly.

“Listen, I gotta go pick up Sammy and Dad soon, but I didn’t wanna just hang up without saying bye first,” Dean said, spreading a warmth through Castiel that must have burned brighter than the white Nevada sun over the desert.

“But things are good with you?”

Castiel looked down at his shoes, scuffing them against the tile. He put his free hand into his pocket. “Yes. They’re . . . unexciting. Without. Well.”

 _Without you_.

They hadn’t even known each other for a year, and already Castiel wasn’t certain there had ever been a time before he knew Dean Winchester.

Dean probably wasn’t bored, though. He was probably having a great time, and he’d only stepped back from it momentarily to call Castiel. Charlie was probably the next phone call on his list. Dean was simply checking in.

“Well, yeah, Cas, you decided to spend your summer break in _school_. Who does that?”

Castiel sighed, glancing back at the door to his lecture hall grimly. He was starting to think Dean had a point.

There was a pause then, and Castiel realized he had no idea what to say. He wanted to tell Dean he missed him. He wanted to ask when Dean was coming home. He wanted to tell Dean he loved him and couldn’t wait to kiss him again, if that was what Dean wanted, too.

Instead, he said, “I won’t keep you. Thank you for calling.”

Dean hesitated. “Yeah, you bet. Told you I would, right?” He sounded a little nervous, pushed humor in his voice. “I could—you know? Call you again some time?”

Castiel would like that very much. “If that’s what you want, Dean.”

Dean laughed, this time genuinely. It lit Castiel up from the inside. “I want what you want,” he said softly. Castiel felt one corner of his mouth pull up in a lopsided grin. His fingers curled more tightly around his phone. He could feel Dean’s lips on his again, could feel the ghost of his hands resting on his sides.

And he wanted. He wanted so badly he didn’t know how he’d get through the rest of the summer.

“Tell Sam I said hello.”

“Will do.”

There was another pause, neither of them quite knowing how to navigate saying goodbye now that they knew how the other felt. Castiel wondered what that made them. Still friends? Something more? He supposed they were just what they’d always been: Dean and Cas. It was something he couldn’t define, couldn’t even begin to unravel.

It was like being a child and waking up on Christmas morning, or like getting into bed after a long day, or like warming up next to a fire when it was freezing outside, like finding shelter from a sudden downpour. It was whatever he’d always hoped to feel each time he walked into his childhood house. Like he belonged somewhere.

It was like that.

“Talk to you soon, Cas,” Dean promised.

“Soon,” Castiel said.

The call ended.

///

Two weeks into their road trip, Dean found himself at a dive bar in Boulder. It was dark outside, had been for hours, and the Rockies were looming black shadows in the distance out the windows, which were painted red and yellow in the neon lights of beer signs. A live band was playing a cover of some country song Dean didn’t know the name of, their instruments way too loud out of the speakers and drowning out the singer’s voice.

None of the patrons seemed to mind. They sat at their tables, swaying back at forth with their beers in their hands, as they listened to the music, clapping after every song. More people were hovering around the bar, waiting for drinks or kicking them back off the polished wood that was slick with a layer of liquid that Dean’s hands itched to mop up. But that wasn’t his job, and he was on vacation.

He stood between two stools at the bar, tipping back his head to drain the rest of his beer. It was dark and bitter, and the only part of it really left anymore was the off-white foam. It was a little before 1 AM, and he was just waiting for Sam, who he’d managed to get in with the fake ID that Dean had gotten made for him a couple years ago, to get back from the bathroom so they could leave. Not that Dean really wanted to go. He was feeling loose and his head was pleasantly hazy from the alcohol—or maybe that was just the beginnings of altitude sickness.

Oh, well. Either way, it felt awesome.

It took him a second to realize someone had slid up next to his shoulder, her own beer dripping with condensation in her hand. When she saw that she’d caught Dean’s attention, she lifted one corner of her mouth in a smile and her dark eyes scanned him up and down indicating she liked what she saw.

Her black hair, pulled back in a messy ponytail was shining in the low light. She was dressed casually, in a work boots, jeans, and faux-fur vest, and her skin was flawless and caramel. She’d been at the bar just as long as Dean had been, and he only knew that because, all night, they kept catching each other’s eyes from across the room.

He couldn’t help himself. He turned towards her, resting one elbow on the bar, and shot her his best flirty grin. She was really hot, and Dean bet he wouldn’t see a body like that again anywhere across the US.

“Hey,” she said simply.

“Hey yourself,” Dean told her.

“I’m Ellie.” She had a slight accent that sounded Latin American.

“Dean.”

“So, Dean. I saw you checking me out all night. I was hoping you’d make a move,” she told him, blunt and self-assured. “And then I figured, why wait?”

Dean licked his lips, looking her up and down. And yeah, he was tempted. He’d been tempted all night. And, usually, he would have sealed the deal by now, but something was holding him back.

And that something was a three letter, one syllable word attached to a guy back in Lawrence.

“You’re pretty hot. I think we should have sex,” she said, so straightforward that it knocked Dean back on his heels a little bit. His blood started rushing down to this dick, and a flustered _hell, yeah_ was on the tip of his tongue. But he didn’t say it.

Because she was slamming. Hell, she was _really_ fucking slamming. And it’d been a minute since he’d gotten any. And it was all well and good to fantasize about her, but he didn’t really want to sleep with her. He wanted to sleep with someone else. And that was just that.

He smiled softly in thought, musing, “You know, if you’d’a asked me a couple weeks ago, I’d take you up on that offer so quick it’d make your head spin. But, uh—.” He let out a gentle laugh, his vision going out of focus a little as he imagined a pair or blue eyes looking back at him. He couldn’t believe he was saying this: “I sorta got someone waiting for me back home. I’d say rain check, but I’m kinda hoping this one lasts.”

 _Really_ hoping. He wanted to make it work.

He’d never wanted to make it work with anyone before. And that scared the holy crap out of him. But it was a good kind of scared.

She didn’t seem too upset by it, her confidence not allowing any room for it. “You’re missing out,” she told him with a shrug.

He looked her up at down once, and his libido was screaming and cursing at him, but it wouldn’t feel right. He’d feel like he was cheating. “Oh, I’m sure I am. But I think he’s worth it.”

She assessed him, and the barest of smiles lit her dark eyes, almost like she was impressed. Without another word, she turned away and disappeared back into the crowd. Dean leaned his elbow against the bar, watching her saunter off. It was weird how much he didn’t regret letting her go. He guessed he’d just have to get used to that feeling.

He’d have to get used to a lot of things. All of it was new when it came to Cas.

He heard his name being called behind him, and turned around to find Sam twisting through the crowd to get to him. Once he was in front of Dean, he said, “You ready?”

Dean nodded. “Yeah, let’s get out of here.”

They started for the exit, and Sam asked, “Who was that girl you were talking to?”

“Just some chick cruisin’ for a hook up,” Dean told him. It was no big deal. She’d find it somewhere else, he was sure. Most guys would be desperate to hit that.

As they pushed out of the door and into the chilled Colorado night, Sam snorted. “What, and you weren’t?”

Dean dug into his pocket to get his keys. The Impala was parked pretty close to the bar’s entrance, and he was at the driver’s side door in a few strides. “No, actually.” Like he said, it was no big deal.

Sam made a thoughtful sound, and Dean shot him a look from over the hood of the car. “Something you wanna share with the class, Sam?”

Sam shook his head quickly, trying to backtrack. “No, it’s just . . . I kinda thought you would have been finding hook ups in every town we stopped in.”

Dean blinked a few times, a little offended. “Gee, thanks!”

“No, no—not like that,” Sam defended. “But you’ve been back at the motel every night we’ve been on the road. And it’s not like you don’t have any prospects.” He nodded back to the bar’s door, case in point.

Dean considered it. He guessed it must have been weird for Sam, too. He rested his arms on top of the roof and fiddled with the bullet shell keychain on his keys. “Yeah, well—just not feeling it, I guess,” he said, not looking Sam in the eyes.

Sam mirrored his stance, and dipped his head a little to get Dean’s attention. “What’s going on with you?”

“Nothing.”

“I mean, it’s obviously _something_.”

Dean let out a breath, expecting it to fog over. It didn’t, probably because the air was so dry, it chapped his nostrils every time he breathed in; but it was still way too cold up in the mountains for it to be summer. “It’s Cas,” he admitted.

He saw Sam’s brows shoot up into his bangs. “Cas?”

“Yeah.” He forced himself to look up. He honestly didn’t know why he hadn’t told Sam yet. He hadn’t told anybody. Dean always thought, if it ever happened between him and Cas, he’d want everyone to know right away. He thought he’d be way too happy to keep it a secret.

But he wanted to keep it to himself just for a little while. Really, he was just nervous that, if he did say it out loud, he’d ruin everything. He meant what he’d said to Ellie; he didn’t want to lose this.

“I kinda,” he said, rubbing at the back of his neck. He couldn’t keep this from Sam. He told Sam everything. Well, most things. “Told him.”

Sam blanched, eyes coming alight with excitement. “What? How you feel about him? When?”

“Before we left.” He winced guiltily as he said it, his tone rising up at the end to make it sound like a question.

But Sam didn’t seem angry at all. He let out a breath of laughter. “Dean, that’s great! So, wait, are you guys . . .? I mean, if you’re not trying to hook up with anyone—?”

Dean didn’t really know how to answer that. He didn’t have an answer for himself. It’s not like he and Cas had talked about it. “Well, I mean—we didn’t—I didn’t actually _tell_ him. But, we . . .”

Sam seemed perplexed for a second, and then his expression shifted as something dawned on him. “Did you guys have sex?” he said in a loud hush. He was trying to be sneaky about it, but his voice echoed across the parking lot.

“No! What?” Dean licked his lips, remembering that time they _almost_ actually did have sex. He wished they had. It would have saved them both some time. “No, we . . .” It sounded so lame saying it out loud. He felt his ears heating up.

Sam must have understood what he meant, because a teasing, shit-eating grin formed on his face, even though he tried to hold it back for the full effect. “You guys had a goodbye kiss?”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Shut up, Sam.”

Pulling down the corners of his mouth, Sam shrugged. “That’s pretty romantic, Dean. Were you in the middle of the street? Was it raining?”

“Sam, I swear to god.”

Sam let his grin free, positively beaming at Dean. He seemed proud. Dean couldn’t meet the stare. He wasn’t exactly known for taking other people’s pride in his accomplishments gracefully. It made him way too bashful.

“So, he broke up with Meg?” Sam asked then, and it made Dean pause. He had absolutely no idea. He kind of assumed Cas would, but he realized he didn’t know for sure.

“I dunno,” he muttered. Great. Now that the thought of Meg was in his head, he’d never be able to shake it. “We, uh—we haven’t really talked about it.”

Sam pulled a face, confused.

“But you know how intense Cas gets about this kind of stuff, so maybe.”

Settling against the car again, Sam said thoughtfully, “Actually, I didn’t.”

“Well, he does,” Dean assured him. “And I don’t wanna fuck this up before it actually gets started, so . . . No picking up hotties in bars for me.”

Sam was quiet for a couple of long seconds, and Dean glanced up, a little worried about what he’d find on his brother’s expression. Sam was probably judging him, thinking he was stupid for holding out for some guy who probably wasn’t holding out for him.

But the only thing he found on Sam’s face was fondness. It was weird.

“What?” Dean asked, recoiling.

“You really _do_ love him,” Sam said. Like it was nothing.

“Yeah, Sam. I really do,” Dean answered. Like it was everything.

“Well, that’s good, Dean. I’m happy for you.”

Sam was getting serious all of a sudden, and Dean didn’t want that. It was way too awkward. Anything out of Dean’s mouth next, no matter how genuine, would probably sound sarcastic just to balance the scales.

“Are we done having a broment here? ‘Cause it’s cold and I really wanna get to bed.”

Yup. Sarcastic.

Sam laughed, his shoulders rumbling as he leaned off the Impala. “Yeah, we’re done,” he said. “Jerk.”

Dean yanked open his door and kicked one leg inside. “Bitch.”

The last thing he saw before sliding behind the wheel was Sam’s smile over the roof of the car.

///

It had been three weeks and two days since Dean left, and the sun was blazing hot over the building site of what would soon be the Novak Park and Recreation Center. Castiel had begun volunteering at the clean up on the weekends. They'd managed to clear most of the garbage from the area, but there was still some floating refuge along the banks of the lake, where volunteers in colorful rain boots waded through the water with garbage bags, pulling out all manner of items from cola cans to a rusted shopping cart. If not for all the garbage, Castiel would have envied their position, because at least they got to be in the water. The sun was sucking out all the humidity in the air, and it was a miracle the lake itself hadn't dried up in a matter of hours.

Castiel collected two of the laden black trash bags that the volunteers had set in a row next to where they were working, holding them in both fists to carry them to the dumpsters across the lot. He'd been going back and forth from one point to the other all day, and his arms were starting to get sore from the prolonged heavy lifting. It was mindless work, but he was happy to help. He just wished the dumpsters weren't so far away.

As he walked, he gave a wide breadth to the pavilion's construction site, where the buzzing sounds of drills and the sharp clacking of hammers served as barely-heard background noise as the workers, many of them stripped out of their shirts, put on the roof. Michael was there, too, standing with a man in a suit, tie, and an oddly matched construction hat, both of them pointing and gesturing out to the park as a whole as they talked logistics.

It was just another reason for Castiel to avoid the pavilion and keep his head down in an attempt to appear overly busy. The park's opening was in a month, and there were still some finishing touches to get done. Discussion of it had dominated most of the Sunday family meetings, with Zachariah usually delivering bad news. Between that and Anael's persistence in preferential treatment for her camera crew in covering the grand opening, to say things were tense would be an understatement. This was supposed to be an easy project, but Castiel couldn't wait for it to be over just for the sake of his family returning to their separate corners and generally ignoring one another.

The dumpsters were overflowing with black bags when he reached them, the putrid stench of garbage baking in the sun hitting him as he approached. He hefted one of the bags in his hands up, having to fit it on top of the pile like a game of Tetris. He couldn't see a space for the second, so he lifted it from the bottom with both hands and tossed it on top with a grunt. It slipped, and his heart skipped as he held up his hands to catch it, fearing it would cause an avalanche and a team of rescue dogs would have to dig him out; but luckily it settled.

He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, even though it didn't help, and dropped his arms to his side. His t-shirt was soaked through with sweat and his hair was flattened and getting into his face. He idly glanced over to where Charlie was working nearby. She was chatting with a boy Castiel recognized from school—Kevin, Castiel thought his name was, who was in Charlie's engineering program—as they planted bright flowers in the patch along the shrubbery. They looked significantly less sweaty than Castiel felt. He watched Charlie sit back on her heels, take off her dirty gardening gloves, and take a long drink from her Nalgene. Castiel smacked his lips, throat suddenly parched.

He turned around to head back to the lake when he saw someone standing on the other side of the high chain link fence that surrounded the work site. Suddenly, he couldn't feel much of anything—not the heat or thirst or aches and pains or exhaustion—except for the zipping nerves lighting up under his skin.

He hadn't seen Meg in weeks, and he thought it might be awkward to speak with her now. His eyes darted back and forth to find an escape route, but it was either walk by her or Michael. She was far enough away that he could pretend not to notice her there, and she hadn't seemed to spot him yet. But that would only make him feel guilty later. It was childish not to speak to her.

He called her name as he walked over, and her attention shifted to him slowly. The second her eyes landed on him, he thought he'd made a mistake, but he tensed his fists and continued on anyway.

"Castiel," she said, her gaze flickering up and down his body. She brought her hands up to shoulder level and wrapped her fingers around the metal crisscrosses of the fence. "Long time."

"Yes," he agreed, settling in front of her.

"I mean, haven't seen you since you dumped my ass."

Her voice held more dry wit than scalding anger, but he ducked his head anyway. Despite the heat, he shoved his hands into his pockets just to have something to do with them. "I'm aware of that."

He hated feeling this way. While he didn't regret ending things with her so he could devote himself to Dean, he never wanted to hurt her. He still cared for her, and valued her company. While he'd explained all of that to her before, he didn't know if it were possible to remain friends in reality. Or, at least, it wasn't at that very moment.

"Meg, I'm—," he started, not really knowing how to follow it up.

"Yeah, yeah. You're sorry. _Let's be friends. Hakuna Matata_. Heard you the first time, Clarence." She pressed the sole of her boot into the bottom of the fence, making it bulge inward. "It's cool. We only screwed like, once, right? No biggie."

Something inside his chest sank, ashamed, at the words. He'd certainly considered it a "biggie." Perhaps that was his mistake.

"But I gotta say," Meg continued, raising her brows as if something were interesting. "You must be really hung up on him if you're saving yourself 'til he gets back. Like he's not slutting his way through the Continental US as we speak."

Castiel's stomach lurched, but he tried not to let it show. He pressed his brows together. "No, he wouldn't—," he said, because it was true, "he wouldn't do that."

His voice sounded weak, and he realized he had no idea if it were true, after all. It certainly sounded like something Dean would do—but they were together now. Weren't they?

"Oh, so you guys had the _let's go steady, you're the only one for me_ talk?"

His eyes flickered down to the cracked, tan dirt. He wasn't aware that conversation was necessary. They hadn't had it yet. In fact, they hadn't spoken about anything remotely in the vicinity of their kiss since Dean left. Castiel had wanted to bring it up, but he didn't know how. He'd assumed Dean would take the lead.

He was suddenly very anxious. Maybe Dean didn't want to be with him in the way Castiel wanted.

But Castiel had told Dean he would wait, and he’d meant it.

Meg hummed, and it could have been empathy but Castiel wasn't so sure. "I wouldn't worry about it, angel. I'm sure he's got his chastity belt on nice and tight."

He didn't want to talk about this anymore. He didn't even want to think about it.

"Um," he said, fishing for a topic change. He looked off a little, squinting in the sun. "What are you doing here?" She was in her usual attire of a tank top, jeans, and boots. She didn't look dressed to work in the sun, so he ruled out volunteering.

"Just being nosy," she told him.

His brows shot up. "Oh, well, if you'd like to stay and help, we could always use more—."

She cut him off with a laugh. "Yeah, think I'll pass. No offense, but I'm not really a khakis and team T-shirt kinda gal."

As she backed away from the fence, he nodded. "Of course."

"But let's hang."

He hadn't expected her to say that. Maybe they could remain friends, after all. "Really? You want to—?"

"Sure. It'll be just like old times." She was walking slowly backwards along the perimeter of the fence now. "How about tonight? Say, seven? We could watch a movie at my place."

He paused, tilting his head to the side in thought. She usually didn't invite him into her house without wanting to sleep with him.

"Will you father be home?" he asked carefully. He didn't know what answer he was hoping for. As far as he was aware, there hadn't been any fallout from his brothers’ investigation into Azazel's lab, but that didn't mean Meg's father wasn't still under scrutiny. Castiel didn't want any member of the Masters family to find out that he was the reason for that.

"I'm offended. Don't you trust me?"

Castiel stayed silent.

Meg crossed her arms and rolled her eyes. "Everyone will be home. Don't be such a prude."

He let out a breath, relieved.

"Okay," he said, smiling closed-mouthed. "I'll see you tonight."

She lifted one corner of her mouth in a smirk and turned around, "See ya."

Castiel's eyes trailed after her, and he tried to focus on being grateful that she still wanted to be his friend, but the interaction had left a sour taste in his mouth. He didn't want her to be right about Dean, and he told himself she wasn't. Dean had never been modest about his hook ups. Surely, Castiel would have heard about one by now if there were any during his trip.

He made his way back to the lake, wanting to make himself useful. Mostly, he wanted to keep his mind busy, but hauling bags back and forth wouldn't do that for him. He'd have to settle for occupying his hands.

That night, Castiel drove the familiar route to the Masters’ home with a few of the DVDs Dean had given to him. He thought Meg would like to watch one, and Dean would be happy that he was making progress on the extensive list of media he’d left behind for Castiel.

As promised, both her brother and father were home, but they mostly kept to themselves. Tom had appeared momentarily to get a snack from the kitchen before heading back to his bedroom and Azazel had remained in his home office. Castiel let Meg choose the film from the four options he’d brought, and they ended up sitting on her living room couch with a bowl of popcorn between them viewing _Natural Born Killers_ in the near darkness.

It was awkward.

They weren’t even halfway into the movie, and Castiel thought he should say something to start up a conversation, despite the fact that he had no idea what to talk about and speaking during a film was usually frowned upon. Every time she cleared her throat or shuffled against the arm of the couch she was leaning on, he snapped his eyes to her in worry that she may say something. He stayed still, his feet planted on the floor and his hands folded on his lap; because the one time he’d reached into the popcorn bowl, she’d done it at the same time, and that made him even more flustered.

He’d never realized before how much of their relationship had consisted of making out. But now that such activities were off the table, he didn’t quite know what to do. He wondered if she was preoccupied with the same thoughts, or if she were actually able to focus on the plot of the movie.

The doorbell rang, causing both of them to perk their heads up. Castiel looked at her, furrowing his brow. It was a little late for visitors.

The bell rang again, and Meg huffed, “Guess I’m getting it.” She kicked her socked feet out from under her and got off the couch. Castiel didn’t bother to pause the movie before following her at a short distance. He stayed in the threshold, peering around the corner as she walked down the hall to the front door.

A squat man with black hair and a dark suit was on the other side, and the pleasant expression on his face soured when he saw her, as if she were offending him by being in her own home.

“Crowley,” Meg said, her tone disapproving.

Crowley. That name sounded familiar, but Castiel couldn’t place why.

But all thoughts went away when Crowley responded in a dulcet, smoky voice, “Whore.” He’d said it like a greeting, but Castiel gritted his teeth. He paced quickly down the hallway to provide Meg with some back up.

“That isn’t the typical salutation,” he said pointedly. Crowley’s eyes slid lazily from Meg to Castiel. He appeared unaffected and uncaring. Castiel narrowed his eyes in a glare.

“Forget it, Castiel. No need to defend my honor,” Meg said, her hand still on the doorknob so that her arm was a barrier between Crowley and the inside of the house. “Crowley here’s all bark, no bite. Really, he couldn’t tussle his way out of a paper bag, isn’t that right, big guy? Might chip a nail.”

Crowley didn’t seem affronted. He raised his brow, almost impressed by the retort. “Well,” he said smoothly, “those manicures don’t pay for themselves. Now, aren’t you going to invite me in?”

“Oh, that’s right. Vampires need to be invited.” Meg stepped to the side. “By all means.”

Crowley walked in like he owned the place, his eyes scanning the walls before landing again on Castiel. “And who might you be?”

Castiel narrowed his eyes further. “Castiel Novak.”

Usually, when Castiel said his name, people reacted as though it was the last thing they’d been expecting to hear. Crowley, however, didn’t flinch. He did, however, look at Meg and say, “Sleeping with the boss? I’m impressed. Quickest way to a promotion, they say.”

Castiel had no idea what he’d meant by that. Perhaps because Meg’s father worked at the hospital Evangelist owned? He didn’t want to decode the meaning merely on principle. He didn’t think he liked Crowley very much.

He did find it pertinent, however, to inform him, “We aren’t sleeping together.”

“Well,” Meg said. “Anymore.”

Castiel tensed, embarrassed at that. Crowley didn’t need to know their private dealings. It wasn’t appropriate.

But Crowley was looking at the two of them evenly, as if considering something. He let out a _humph_ sound, followed by, “Pity.” And then, “Mr. Novak, a pleasure.” He held out his hand to shake. Castiel stared at it.

And stared.

Crowley dropped it back to his side.

“Right. Well. Love to stay and chat, but I have an appointment with the patriarch of this household.” He turned back to Meg, the corners of his lips quirking into a cool smile. “Ta-ta for now.”

He turned on his expensive heels and walked further into the house towards Azazel’s office.

Meg didn’t exactly bristle, but she did seem annoyed. “Such a smarmy dick,” she muttered before walking back to the living room.

Castiel followed. “Who was that man?”

“Crowley?” She snorted. “Just some asshole who works for my dad.”

He didn’t appear the type to work in a hospital’s pharmacy. He seemed more along the lines of an executive at a bank. “At the lab?”

Meg sat back down on the couch and frowned at the screen. “We’re gonna have to rewind.” She picked up the remote.

Castiel stayed standing. He looked over his shoulder for a moment as if he were expecting to see Crowley again. The room was empty but for them.

When she noticed Castiel was still standing, she looked up at him. “What?”

He shook his head. It wasn’t worth the discussion. If Meg said Crowley worked with her father, he believed her. “Nothing. I just—it’s getting late. I should go.”

Her face fell, shoulders sagging. “Oh. I mean, you could crash here for the night.”

It was a kind offer, but it was unnecessary. His apartment wasn’t far. Besides, they didn’t have any spare bedrooms, and Castiel had a feeling Meg was offering to share her bed with him. “No. Thank you.”

She stood up, seeming to accept it. He collected the DVDs and she walked him to the front door. When they reached it, they stared at each other for a long second. Castiel had no idea how to navigate any of this.

He pressed his lips into a line. And then, “Goodnight.”

“’Night, Clarence. Let’s do this again sometime,” she said. “Your place next.”

He nodded, and wondered if she was feeling just as discombobulated as he was. “Okay.” Again, “Goodnight.”

He walked out of the door. It was awkward, but perhaps it wouldn’t be forever.

///

Dean had been on the road for a month now—a full four weeks and change.

It was kind of weird how easily he’d acclimated to life on the road. To the diner food and greasy fast food burgers for all three meals every day, to the roach motels and roadside motor lodges, to being packed in a car for hours upon hours with his dad and Sam as they bickered. It wasn’t perfect, but he hadn’t expected it to be. And he didn’t want it to be.

He missed Lawrence, yeah. He missed Bobby and Ellen and Jo. He missed his friends and working at the bar and the garage. He missed Cas.

But it felt good not having to worry about making rent or grocery shopping or being late for work. And it was awesome not having to sneak around delivering god knows what to Crowley’s contacts. The weight off his mind was a weight off his body, and he felt lighter. There was no perpetual kink in his neck or headache at the base of his skull. The tension in his shoulders that he’d gotten so used to from leaning over the hood of various cars was gone.

He felt good. He felt like he was finally where he was supposed to be.

And, at the moment, that was parked on the side of a deserted highway in the small hours of the morning. He was sitting on the hood of the Impala, its grill parked a few feet from the railing of a cliff that overlooked the jagged rock formations and vast, cracked valleys of the Badlands. The sky overhead was a blanket of stars, more than Dean had ever seen in his life. If he held his thumb and forefinger an inch apart and looked into the space between them, he’d find a million pinpricks of light in that fraction of sky alone.

Great purples and blues and greens from the cosmos were faint against the black, and the Milky Way cut a faded line right down the middle of it, like the cracked spine between the pages of a book when you got to the exact middle of it.

They rolled into the area a day ago, making a pit stop in Deadwood, where Dean got himself an old-timey wool gambler’s hat and dragged Sam and Dad to every storefront and saloon of the replicated Main Street.

They drove a little further out before hitting up a motel for the night, where John fell asleep during Archie Bunker reruns on some local channel, and Sam turned off the TV soon after to sleep, too. Dean was on the rolled-up cot for the night, since Sam’s turn had been in the previous motel, and ended up tossing and turning on the springs for a couple hours before sneaking out of the room to drive around.

It was late, and the town had been closed up for the night as he drove through it, so he couldn’t stop anywhere for a drink. So, he kept driving until he reached the National Park, and picked a place to hunker down until the fresh air made him sleepy.

But the opposite happened. The scene before him was so fucking breathtaking, and part of him wished he’d woken up Sam to share it with him. And part of him was happy he could soak it in by himself.

And another part of him wished Cas was there.

He couldn’t name any of the constellations spinning above his head. Hell, he didn’t even know where to start tracing their shapes, but the stars were beautiful to look at, and the blues swirling around reminded him that Cas was still out there. It was kind of weird to think about—that life in Lawrence hadn’t just stopped, that Dean’s apartment was still there, untouched and silent and unlived in; that his friends were in bed right now sleeping; that Cas was living each day without Dean there to share them. He half expected life back home to freeze until he got back and, right there, in the stillness and quiet, it wasn’t too hard to convince himself that was true.

Maybe Cas was suspended in time. Maybe he was even waiting for Dean.

Probably not. He was probably way too busy. But, shit, Dean missed him. Even in the perfect moments, where he felt right and free, something was missing, something under his skin and in his bones. And the only word he could put to the feeling was _Cas_. In all those empty black spaces between the stars, in all the world stretching out before him, Dean missed him.

Because Dean was where he was supposed to be, but Cas wasn’t. Cas was stuck in Lawrence with a family that treated him like a business associate and schoolwork that he had way too much heart to be wasting his time on. Cas should have been there. With Dean. Under the wild summer stars.

Dean pulled his phone out of his pocket and stared down at the screen for a second.

It was late. Cas was probably sleeping.

But, hell, so was the world, it felt like, and he wanted to reach across it and pull Cas towards him. Like all he had to do was pray real hard and the heavens would open up and Cas would somehow take flight, and then there he’d be.

It was stupid. But why not? He was alive and awake in a world frozen in time, and Cas was the only other real thing.

Dean called him.

He listened to the trilling on the other end of the line, counting the rings. One. Two. Three.

He was holding his breath, feeling as if he were toeing at the edge of a cliff. Half of him didn't want Cas to pick up. The other half just wanted to take the tumble off the edge already.

The line went silent after the fifth ring, and there was a long second where nothing happened. Then, there was rustling, and a soft, gruff, and sleepy voice said, "Hello, Dean."

Dean's nerves settled at the sound of his voice. He pulled one leg under him, and let the other swing lazily off the front grill of the Impala. He bit his bottom lip to keep himself from grinning, as if the sliver of moon over the rocks couldn’t keep a secret. "Hey." Cas sounded good, if not a little tired. "I didn't wake you up, did I?"

Cas sighed, the heavy kind that came out of his nose while his mouth was closed. Dean could picture the sharp rise and fall of his chest. "No, I'm always awake at 5:16 in the morning."

Shit, was it already 5 AM? Dean didn’t realize he’d been sitting out there for so long.

The corners of Dean's lips pulled up some more before he could stop himself. "Right." He guessed he should have felt a little guilty, but it was kind of worth it to talk to Cas. "Sorry. I'll, uh. I'll let you sleep."

He was about to pull his phone away from his ear and hang up when he heard, "No, it's . . . What is it?"

Good question. Dean really didn't know why the hell he'd called. With a panic, he realized he had no idea what to say. He just wanted to hear Cas’ voice. "Nothing. I was just—you know, calling to say hi."

"Oh." Cas was a little less alert now, a little gentler. Dean thought maybe he was smiling. "Hi."

"Hi."

And then he was at a loss again. He didn't do this. He didn't just call people to chat. Hell, even when he called Charlie, he always had something specific to talk about. He felt like he was grasping at straws, trying to come up with something to keep Cas on the line.

Then, Cas said, "Where are you?" His voice was muffled now, like he was pressing his cheek against the pillow. He'd be sleeping on his side, facing the window. One hand would be holding the phone loosely to his ear, fingers curled around it. His eyes would be closed, his hair sticking up in every direction. Dean wished he were there.

He glanced back up at the stars above the cliffs. Something twinkled as it drifted across the sky, and he thought maybe it was the ISS. "South Dakota. Looking out at the Badlands right now."

"That sounds nice."

"It's quiet." There was only the sound of the wind skittering across the dried grass. If he listened closely, he might be able to hear some owl hooting and flapping its wings, and he thought there should have been a wolf howling in the distance. There was always a wolf in the cowboy movies. It was kind of disappointing, actually.

But then he remembered that he and Cas were the only two things in the world right now and he was okay with it.

"There's lots of stars. No light pollution out here, I guess. I can even kinda see the Milky Way," Dean told him. "I just—." He stopped himself short, because there was no way he was about to admit that he'd been looking up at the stars and thinking of Cas; and he was definitely not about to start waxing poetic about how they might be thousands of miles apart but they're still under the same moon. Hell no.

"Just thought you'd like it," Dean said. He wished he could take a picture of it to send to Cas, but he knew his crappy phone camera wouldn't do it any kind of justice. Really, he wished Cas were there to see it for himself. "And, you know. I—you know."

Why was he so bad at this?

Cas somehow knew what he meant, because somehow he _always_ knew. He said, "I miss you, too, Dean." And something in Dean's chest shed away from his rib cage, molting into a fragile and delicate animal. It left him feeling exposed in a way he never had been before.

Clearing his throat to get himself under control, he asked, "So, what have I been missing over there? Anything to report?"

"Not at all," Cas said sleepily, and Dean felt safe enough to let some of his own exhaustion wash over him. As he listened to Cas, he leaned back on the hood of the car and stared straight up at the zenith. "Things have been wholly uneventful here. Although, the new park is almost complete. We're going to have a grand opening. My family has been busy with preparation for it, which has been . . . stressful. I'm doing what I can to help with the volunteers, but I'm probably just getting in the way. Claire and Jack seem excited, though. I think they've gotten tired of the old park."

Dean stifled a yawn into his fist. "Yeah, well, variety is the spice of life."

"So I'm told."

There was a stretch of quiet then where neither of them said a damn thing. The sky on the horizon was starting to lighten with a cool blue, and Dean listened to Cas breathing over the phone. He thought maybe he should say something to start up the conversation again, because you're actually supposed to talk to somebody on the phone. But he didn't really mind the silence anymore. It was comfortable, and when he closed his eyes, he could pretend that Cas was next to him. He could feel his presence so clearly, the hairs on his arm stood up like static electricity in the space Cas might have been laying down next to him.

As the sky grew lighter, it brought pinks and oranges, and the stars started blinking out. A few planets peeked their way through the veil, their pinpricks of light brighter than the others. Dean didn't know which planets they were, but he bet Cas would.

He realized then that Cas' breathing had evened out. It made him smile, just listening to it. Whispering, just to check but not wanting to wake him up if he were asleep, Dean asked, "Cas?"

There was a sharp intake of breath, and then Cas hummed, "Mm. Yeah. I'm awake." He sounded way too groggy for that to be true.

Dean wanted to see him. They weren't too far from Lawrence. They could go home for a few days. But Dean knew that would only end up cutting the trip short, and he didn't want that. He wanted to see it through. It was frustrating, and he didn't know what he wanted more. The majority of him was itching for the open road, but his chest was pulling him back home, back to Cas.

He sat up, ran his hand through his hair. Daylight was licking at his heels, and the illusion of a vacant world was slowly ebbing away. People would be awake soon. Campers would be rattling pots and pans as they cooked their breakfast over fires. Sam and Dad would be waking up any time now. The town Dean had driven through would be flipping around the _open_ signs on their storefront windows.

He said, "Go to sleep. I should probably do that, too."

Cas grunted. "Maybe you're right."

Sliding off the hood, Dean fished for his keys in his pockets and got back into the car. "I'll talk to you later, man."

"Yes," Cas said. Dean wanted to kiss him again. "Later."

There was another long minute when nothing happened. Dean waited for Cas to hang up, and he got the weirdest feeling that Cas was waiting on the same thing from him. God, they were a couple of teenage girls.

Then, the line clicked and went too quiet. Dean pulled his phone away from his face and saw the call had ended. He sighed, tossing his phone onto the seat next to him.

He turned the engine over and reached for the gearshift.

///

Castiel didn't know how it began.

It had been five weeks exactly since Dean had left, and he felt as though he were simply going through the motions of his Sunday obligations. That wasn't a unique sensation, but he was even less present than usual. He zoned out completely during mass as he stared straight at the altar and half-processed the swell of the organ and the off-key vocals of the choir. The cadence of Father Jim's voice during the homily reached him, but none of the words held any meaning. He listened to the music and wanted to hear Dean whispering breathy sweet nothings into his ear. He sipped the wine and wished it were the sharp, whiskey taste of Dean's tongue on his lips. He stared at the altar and wanted to kneel before Dean.

He'd never longed for any of that from anyone else before. It was new and thrilling and terrifying and it made him feel as if the floor had dropped out from under him and he was plummeting in an endless downfall.

And it was ridiculous because Dean wasn't even there. He hadn't been there for five weeks, and Castiel was becoming impatient.

Not with Dean, but with everything else.

With his school work, his family, his routine—everything that Dean had made bolder and brighter after barreling into his life. Everything that now seemed colorless and unimportant without him. He wondered if he’d always felt that way, if only subconsciously, or if he were only just realizing it now that he knew what he was without.

It was five weeks too many.

And now he was sitting in Michael’s office at Evangelist along with the rest of his siblings, and they were all arguing around him, and Castiel didn’t know how it began. He hadn’t been listening, but he knew they’d been going over the event planning details of the portfolio the PR team had put together for the grand opening of the Charles Goddard Novak Park and Recreation Center. The last Castiel heard, Naomi was updating them on the list of registered vendors for the opening, and it had been around then that Castiel tuned out.

And now his siblings were yelling over one another, and Michael had asked Naomi and Zachariah to leave the room, which meant it was a particularly sorted shouting match. Perhaps Castiel should be paying attention, but every time he tried to pull himself back into the moment, the fluffy clouds outside the window caught his attention. They were moving quickly in the summer breeze, at times blocking out the sun.

Castiel wondered if Dean had developed any new freckles in the past five weeks.

Eventually, he heard someone say his name, and realized he was being directly addressed. He blinked his eyes back into focus and glanced sidelong at Raphael, who was sitting across the room, one leg folded over the pleated black dress pants of the other. He was in the cushioned chair in front of Michael's desk, and it was turned around to face the others in the circle.

Michael was leaning his back against his desk, shoulders rigid and expression taut. Uriel was pacing in small intervals across the room, his hands on his hips and his round face looking upwards at the heavens beyond the ceiling. Anael had been sitting on the couch next to Castiel before, but she was standing now, arms folded tightly over her chest.

They were all staring at him. It was evident that Raphael had said his name more than once.

Castiel turned his head fully towards his brother in an attempt to pretend he'd been paying attention the whole time.

"Care to give us your take?" Raphael asked evenly, a wicked sort of glee barely lighting his expression, but Castiel saw it well enough.

So much for pretending.

Castiel's gut flipped, knowing he'd been caught, as Dean would say, with his pants down. "I . . ." he started, his eyes darting around in a circular motion and his mouth falling open as he wracked his brain for something to say. He came up with nothing. Were they still talking about the park or had they moved on?

Anael huffed loudly and threw up her arms, letting them flap heavily against her sides. Her bracelets jangled in the movement. "For God's sake."

"Castiel, it's imperative you remain present during these meetings," Michael scolded, and Castiel pressed his lips together and looked down at his shoes. He regretted making them assume they weren't worth his attention, mostly because he didn't at all regret allowing his mind to wander to Dean.

"Well, I believe it's much too late for that. He hasn't been present for some time now, Michael," Raphael said, his voice even. Castiel's face burned under the scrutiny. "Tell me, brother, do you even care about what we’re doing here?"

Castiel snapped his gaze back up, anger suddenly flaring in him. He wanted to say yes, of course he cared. But he didn't. He didn't want to be there at all. He wanted to be wherever Dean was, and he didn't even understand why these meetings were necessary.

Apparently, Anael shared his sentiment, but she was brave enough to voice it. "Of course, he doesn't! Do any of us ever want to be here? What's the point, if you aren't even going to take my suggestions seriously?"

Michael pinched the bridge of his nose to stifle a headache. "Anael. I've told you. The name of the recreation area is non-negotiable."

Okay, so they were still talking about the park. Castiel was glad he hadn't missed too much.

"Yeah, because Dad would care so much," Anael shot back snottily. "Tell you what, Michael. If you can get him on the phone, I'll break the news to him myself, how about that? Can you get him on the phone? Do you even have his number?"

Castiel blinked, a little surprised that Anael was getting so heated about changing the status quo. Most, if not all, things that Evangelist had built or donated to were named after their father. True, the park would be the first location built after their father's retirement, but Castiel hadn't even considered changing the tradition. He didn't even know what they would change it to. Michael's name? He didn't believe his sister would be so passionate about that.

"Do you . . . do you want us to name it after you?" he asked unsurely, squinting up at her.

Anael folded her arms again. "I think we should name it after mom."

Castiel understood now what the issue was. The topic was a sore one, and it was never brought up. In fact, talk of their mother was so avoided that Castiel had no idea what she'd been like. He'd never been told any anecdotes of her life, never heard of any of her hobbies or personality traits. He'd only ever seen pictures, and they were like looking at a stranger that bore a resemblance to the face he saw in the mirror, like seeing an old photograph in a history book of someone who looked like a contemporary person. It was just random genetics.

He wished it didn't feel that way. He'd tried to create a personality for her in his mind, to imagine what she might have been like. But rationality always got in the way and prevented his imagination from going too far.

"What sort of message would that send?" Uriel spoke up, suddenly standing still. Castiel didn't look at him. Uriel only ever responded with malice on the rare occasion their mother was brought up. He was still angry with her, which Castiel supposed was his right. As for Castiel, he only felt abandoned.

"You know the church condemns suicide." A ripple went through the room at the word stated so bluntly, each of them flinching in their own way. "Her death should not be memorialized in the community."

"Oh, so we should just pretend like she wasn't alive at all?" Anael defended. "What about forgiveness? Don't you think that's a good message to send? And why the hell should we keep praising Dad? Newsflash—he left us, too!"

She was right, Castiel thought. He looked around the room, and for the first time, the fact that they were parentless sunk in. Their father was probably never going to return, and their mother was long dead. They might as well have been orphans. It felt that way.

"Not that I blame him," Anael added in a mutter, just pronounced enough for each of them to hear.

"And what's that supposed to mean?" Raphael challenged. Castiel glanced quickly at Michael, who remained silent, as he always did when the subject of their parents was broached. Castiel didn't know Michael's feelings towards the matter, if he held any other than a sense of duty to continue what they’d left behind.

"You know exactly what it means," Anael said, louder this time, putting her fists on her hips. "And so did Gabriel, and so did Anna, and so do I. Hell, even Lucifer knew it! Castiel does, too! That's why he doesn't care!"

Castiel didn't appreciate being brought into this conversation again, especially in such a way. "That's not true," he defended, and he meant it. He mostly meant it. He cared, just not about the company or their legacy or their family meetings. But he cared about his siblings battling each other constantly. He supposed it was better than them never speaking to one another again, but he would prefer it if they treated one another like a family.

He would prefer it if he knew what that even meant.

"Please." Anael rolled her eyes. "You're more mentally checked out than mom was before she swallowed all her barbiturates."

Castiel wasn't certain how he reacted, but it felt like a slap to the face. He just froze up. Anael had basically confirmed what he'd tried for so long not to believe—that they were the reason their mother died, and the reason so many of their family members had left. They didn't want to be a part of this family. They didn't want to be there.

But Castiel didn't feel as if he wanted to die. He didn't feel hollow and hopeless. In fact, for the first time, he thought he knew what it felt like to be alive.

Maybe that was how it started. Maybe the others saw what life could be, maybe they realized what it meant to be free and loved and to live according to their own will, so they left. Maybe his mother believed there was no way out except to die.

And the others simply gave in to their temptations.

Maybe Castiel was on the same path, and there was only one person at the end of it.

Dean Winchester was the snake in the garden, and his kisses tasted like apples. And Castiel wanted to run to him.

"Anael, that's far enough," Michael snipped, finally breaking his silence. Everyone else fell silent, and Anael bristled but didn't argue. Michael breathed out, calming himself. He stood up straight and pulled together the button of his suit jacket. "I believe we've all had enough for the day. If anyone doesn't have any other topics to discuss, I suggest we regroup later with clearer minds."

No one said anything, but the tension didn't subside. They stared at each other in turn, waiting for the others to blink first. Eventually, Anael let out a frustrated sound and snatched her purse off the table. She left quickly. Uriel shared a glance with Raphael before departing after her. Slowly, Raphael stood up from his seat. Without turning the chair back around to face the desk, he looked at Michael and said, "I'll be in my office if I'm needed." Michael nodded, dismissing him. Raphael paced out of the room, his eyes burning into Castiel as he did, but Castiel barely registered it. His gaze didn't waver from Michael, who walked around his desk and sat primly in his chair.

"Is there something bothering you, Castiel?" he asked after a moment of shuffling the papers before him.

Castiel wanted to ask him if it were true. If their mother killed herself because she didn't want them. If Lucifer did what he did as some kind of rebellion against their family. If so many people had left them because they needed to escape. If Anael would leave now, too. If he feared Castiel would share the same fate, and that was why Michael didn't want him befriending the Winchesters.

Michael was the oldest. He had twenty years with their mother, and he was their father's favorite. He remembered the most, and likely knew the most about the true circumstances following their family like a black cloud.

"No," Castiel said. He stood up, pausing for a second as he clocked the chair that Raphael had been sitting in, still facing the rest of the room. Castiel walked up to it and turned it around, pushing it up against the desk, so Hannah wouldn’t have to. He realized that Michael was staring at him now, pondering him, but he didn’t return the gaze. He made for the door, all his questions still causing a hurricane in his mind.

His family didn't want him.

"Castiel," Michael said behind him, again looking down at his work. Castiel stopped in front of the closed door and waited. After what felt like forever, Michael said, "It wasn't your fault—what our mother did to herself."

Castiel looked over his shoulder at his brother, but Michael didn't look up. He was the last-born. He wondered if his birth had caused their mother's death, if it had been her final straw. He was just another steel bar added to the cage that trapped her.

In his heart, Michael’s words didn't absolve him of blame, but it was still nice to hear.

Sometimes, with only a glimmer like the reflection of the sun on the ocean waves, Castiel saw kindness in Michael. Sometimes, Castiel considered his brother was actually human.

He was grateful.

"Thank you," he said, feeling his chest constrict like it was being crushed.

Michael didn't react in any way whatsoever, and Castiel knew he was dismissed. He distractedly waved goodbye to Hannah on the phone as he left, happy that neither Anael or Uriel were hovered around the elevators so he didn't have to endure an awkward ride to the lobby with them.

He went right for his truck, imagining himself driving towards the Winchesters' apartment before he remembered they wouldn't be there.

They, too, were gone, and Castiel didn't know when they were returning or if they even ever would.

It wasn't fair. He wanted to be with Dean.

Once behind the wheel, Castiel took his phone out of his pocket and stared down at his reflection in the black screen glinting in the white-hot sunlight. He opened it and went into his contacts, letting his thumb hover over Dean’s name. Maybe he shouldn’t call. He didn’t need to burden Dean with this.

But he wanted to hear Dean’s voice. He needed it to calm himself down.

Before he could change his mind, he tapped on Dean’s name and watched the screen until the faint ringing came through the earpiece. He held it up to his face, listening to it ring and ring. A knot formed in the back of his throat when he realized Dean probably wasn’t going to answer.

And that was fine. He was on vacation. He was busy.

Castiel tried to tell himself that it wasn’t because Dean didn’t want to talk to him. He tried to tell himself that Dean wanted him.

The ringing stopped abruptly and went to Dean’s voicemail, and even the sound of his voice over the recorded message was like a balm to Castiel’s nerves. He closed his eyes and listened, pretending that Dean was speaking to him in real time, that he was in the car next to him.

When the message was over, there was a beeping sound signaling that it was Castiel’s turn to speak. The fact of that didn’t process for several long seconds, but when it did, he realized he didn’t have anything to say. He thought it would be silly to go on about his woes to a machine, and there was no guarantee Dean would even listen to it.

This was stupid. He should have hung up earlier. He shouldn’t have tried to bother Dean at all.

But it was too late now, and he felt he should say something.

All he came up with was, “Dean. It’s . . . It’s me.” His throat sounded clogged and he didn’t know how to stop it. He wasn’t really sure where he was going with this. “I just needed to hear your voice. And.” He licked his lips. “And to say I—.”

He couldn’t say it. Not when Dean wasn’t even listening.

“I wish you . . . were here. Or that I was there,” he said, just to buy himself time. He was still deciding. Maybe he should just say it. Dean might even want to hear it, even if he didn’t feel the same way. It might even help Castiel feel better, lighter.

“And that—I—.”

Was he really going to say it?

He never found out because his phone in his hand vibrated with a text message. He scrunched his brow together and said, “Hold on. Someone’s texting me.”

He pulled the phone away from his ear and looked at the notification. It was from Dean.

“Oh. It’s from you. I . . .” He was being awkward. “I’ll hang up now.”

He did hang up.

After that, he opened the text, which read, _Can’t talk right now. You good?_

Castiel looked down at the screen, wondering how he should answer. He wanted to tell Dean that he wasn’t, in fact, good. He wanted to tell him that he needed to speak with him—that he needed him there, with him, home.

But Dean was enjoying himself. Castiel wouldn’t ruin that.

He typed back: _Yes. Have fun._

A few seconds later, Dean wrote back: _kk. Call u later_

The prospect of speaking to Dean later helped Castiel a little bit, his mind was still reeling from the conversation he’d had with his siblings. He needed a distraction. Perhaps he could watch one of the movies Dean had left for him, but he thought even that would cause his mind to wander.

He needed a person. He needed to not be alone.

It was strange. A few months ago, isolating himself would have been his first option. Now, he didn’t want that.

He scrolled down his contact list and thumbed at Meg’s name. She picked up on the third ring.

“Clarence. Little early for a booty call,” she teased.

He opened and closed his mouth a few times, letting out unsure noises. That wasn’t what he was calling about. He’d just wanted a friend.

“Relax,” she stressed, laughing. “It was a joke. What’s up?”

He swallowed, trying to recover. “I was wondering if you’d like to come over to watch some movies. If . . . if you’re not busy.”

To his relief, she said, “I’m pretty sure I can pencil you in. Can I meet you in an hour?”

She wasn’t Dean, but he was glad she was there to keep his mind off his family for a while.

///

Life on the road definitely wasn't cheap. Gas prices were through the roof, diner food and gas station coffee and burritos cost a good chunk of change when you ate it for every meal, and was it Dean or did the price of motels go up? Needless to say, they needed some fresh cash every couple of weeks, and the sixth week was no exception.

They were in some pass-through coastal town in Maine, and Dean took a day job unloading boxes of lobsters and crabs from a fishing boat and bringing them to a refrigerated truck on the docks to take to some warehouse. The pay was kind of shit, but it was all under the table and he was at it for five hours a day for the last two days. All told, he managed to make close to a hundred and fifty bucks, which would be enough to get them through a couple of more towns.

By the time Dean made it back to the motel, his hair reeked of saltwater and sweat, and his shoulders and lower back were aching something fierce from all the bending and lifting. His stomach was so empty he felt sick, but Sam and Dad had probably already eaten dinner, and Dean wasn't about to waste his hard earned cash on a meal all by himself. Maybe they still had some of those Funyons left from that Wawa in Pennsylvania.

What he really needed was a hot shower and some sleep, but it didn't look like he was going to get either anytime soon. He could already hear the yelling behind the thin, tattered door of their room from the parking lot.

He sighed, letting his stance waver before pulling up his shoulders and pushing inside.

"Because it's irresponsible!" John was yelling. "You don't need to do it—!"

"How the hell would you know?" Sam roared back, his voice way too deep for his age as it came up from his chest. The kid was really starting to become a real live man. "Do you even know what my major is? What did you think pre-law means?"

"I know what it means. That's not the point," John argued. He held up his finger, pointing it in Sam's face. "You're talking about leaving your family. Abandoning your home, your brother—."

Dean's stomach dropped, his skin suddenly numb. What the hell was going on?

Sam scoffed out a laugh. It didn't look like either of them realized Dean was there yet. "Yeah, you should talk."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means—You're never home, Dad! Never—!"

Dean slammed the door behind him just to get their attention. It worked. Both of them stopped yelling abruptly and looked over.

Dean tried to play it cool, to push through and pretend he didn't just hear what he'd heard. Denial never really worked for him before, but right now, it was the only play he had. "You fellas look a little tense. What, did Sam clog up the toilet again?"

Okay, so maybe joking was his other play. The two went hand in hand. Sometimes, it even managed to fix things. Dad and Sam would realize what they were arguing about was dumb and drop it, and the cold shoulder they gave each other after only lasted a few hours. But this looked like a full-blown fight, and Dean hated when they did that because the fallout was equivalent to a nuclear fucking winter and he was just too bone tired for that right now.

And he was way too tired to think of Sam leaving. Because it was inevitable. Dean always knew that. Sam was too big for Lawrence. He'd move to Chicago or New York and work at a fancy law firm in a skyscraper, and that was great. Good for him. Dean wanted that for him. In theory. But in reality? Sam was in college now, a year earlier than anyone had anticipated, and that skyscraper in New York was so close to being the present, not the future. And Dean didn't think he could deal with that, actually.

Especially when he thought back to when they'd first moved back to Lawrence, and Dean had nightmares every night for two weeks straight, convinced that Sam had stopped breathing in his sleep, because they didn't share a bedroom anymore and Dean couldn't keep an ear out for him. He'd spent a lot of time curled up on Sam's floor instead of in his own bed most nights in the beginning. He still didn't know if that was for Sam's benefit or for his own.

"We're fine," Sam and Dad both said at the same time, their tones seething and their shoulders heaving with angry breaths. One of the worst things about their fights was this: they were the exact same person, minus the alcoholism on Sam's part, thank god, and they didn't even know it. That meant they were both too hardheaded to admit defeat. Sometimes it was a blessing. Right now, it was a curse.

"Sam was just acting like a child," John finished, turning back to Sam and glaring. Sam glared back, his nostrils flaring like they did when he was really pissed. His fists were balled at his sides, and a muscle in his arm rippled, and Dean thought for a second that he might actually clock Dad.

Dean held his breath, ready to jump in to break it up if fists started flying. Thankfully, Sam turned away without a word and power-walked towards Dean. Dean held up his hand, the words, "Come on, Sammy, calm down," on his lips along with a forced smile, but Sam shoved past him and slammed the door again on the way out.

Dean clenched his jaw, ignoring the urge to go after him. He needed to sort out John first before John decided to waste all their new money at the nearest bar. Dean didn't think he could take another day of lugging around stinky fish crates.

"What the hell happened?" he asked, doing his best not to sound frustrated or pissed or—fuck, so tired. He was running on so little sleep that every thirty seconds or so his eyelid twitched annoyingly, and his feet were calloused and complaining in his boots.

John whirled around, looking like he might knock something breakable off a flat surface, and wouldn't that just be great? Dean would rather he took a swing at him to get the anger out. At least, that way, they wouldn't have to pay a deposit for the damages.

"Did you know about this?" John demanded. "This— _hair brained_ idea about him going to law school in California?"

Dean breathed out, some of his resolve draining. "Yeah. I knew."

Sam hadn't told him about it, exactly. But he'd caught Sam looking at Stanford's website while sitting in the kitchen before Sam could X out of the page. And he'd seen the brochures and letters from the bursar's office in the mail. Sam wasn't exactly slick about it.

Dean knew this was inevitable. He just kind of hoped Sam would choose to stay in Kansas, at least for law school.

John went still, his eyes burning a hole through Dean's skull. It was that calm, cold Marine thing John did every time he was especially mad. It was worse than yelling.

"What?" he said, voice low and challenging Dean to repeat what he’d said.

Dean wanted to collapse. "Look, am I gonna have to break out the talking stick?" he asked, digging at his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. It took a second for the world to come back into focus from a dark vignette when he dropped his arm. "Or can we just put a pin in this for right now?"

"Dean—."

"I get it, Dad!" He sighed, trying to get himself back under control. He hadn't meant to snap. He didn't want to set Dad off again. His job was to keep the peace, not make it worse. "He's a freshman—a sophomore. Whatever. He's still got like—three more years to change his mind, alright?"

He wouldn't. Once Sam's mind was set on something, it was like moving a mountain to convince him otherwise. But that was a problem for later.

"We still got time to give him other options. Kansas U has a good law school and . . . I'm optimistic." He wasn't.

John put his hands on his sides, and hung his head in a breath. He still wasn't convinced, and there were still traces of anger about him, but at least the line of his shoulders had slackened. Dean called that a win.

"Fine," he decided with a lofty wave of his hand. He turned around again, going to his duffel in the corner of the room.

"Great," Dean said to his back, trying to push cheer. "I'll go get him back inside. Hey, I heard there's a pretty awesome aquarium in Boston. Got penguins and everything. If we get up bright and early, maybe we can hit it up tomorrow."

John didn't answer. He just kept rifling through his clothes. Dean let his smile drop, figuring he was in the clear. He left the room and closed the door gently behind him. Once outside, he leaned back against the wood, even more exhausted than before. He scrubbed at his face, trying to rally himself.

He wondered if, just this once, he could be selfish. He could get into the Impala, find some grub, take a nap in the back seat. He could call Cas. That'd be nice. Hell, it'd be more than nice. Right now, it'd be the best damn thing in the world.

But he couldn't. He had to go find Sam and make this right. Because that's what he did.

He didn't have to look too hard. Sam was on the sidewalk in front of the motel, pacing back and forth like a caged animal under the neon glow of the vacancy sign.

"Sammy, come inside," Dean called as he approached, his voice half getting lost to a tractor trailer kicking up gravel as it zoomed by on the road.

"Can you believe him?" Sam yelled, not missing a single beat, like he had it ready on the tip of his tongue and was just waiting for someone to hurl it at. "Like he has any right to tell me what I can do! He's not even around half the time! He can’t just lock me up and throw away the key!"

Dean held up his hands in a placating manner. "Alright, Andy Dufresne. You made your point. Can we just get back into the air conditioning, please? It's like breathing in soup out here." That was probably an understatement. It was balmy and oppressive and Dean felt a few beads of sweat roll down his back while he was doing nothing but standing there. He was used to drier summers than this. But that wasn't the real reason he wanted to go inside. The AC unit in their room was terrible, anyway, and it kicked on every half hour with a whining rumble that was impossible to sleep through.

If Sam heard him at all, he didn't acknowledge it. He spun back around to face Dean, his arms flying out and spreading out long like wings. "He's being an asshole, Dean!"

Dean sighed, and looked sidelong at the road. Apparently, Sam took his silence to mean something aggressive, because he scoffed and accused, "You're taking his side?"

"What?" Dean jumped. How in the hell did Sam get to that conclusion? "No!" It sounded like a lie even to his own ears.

Sam let out another thick noise of frustration and shook his head. "I can't believe this."

And that was just it. Dean bent his knees a little and held up his palms in a hopeless kind of shrug. "What, like he doesn't have a point?" Okay, so maybe he was taking Dad's side. "I mean, California, Sam? Really? What d'you wanna go there for? All it is is beaches and juice diets! Who cares about that crap?"

"It's not about that, Dean!" John was right. He sounded like a child—a whiny, temper-tantrum-throwing child. "It's where I wanna go to school."

"Why? Everyone you know is in Lawrence. Your friends. Your girlfriend."

"Eileen isn't gonna stay there after school," Sam told him. "She already said she wants to go to the west coast! And who knows if we'll even still be together by then? I mean—yeah, I hope so. But who knows? And it's not like I can't keep in touch with my friends."

Okay, new tactic: "Well, what about your family? Like Dad and Bobby and Ellen and Jo—and me!" He almost didn't add himself. Because he didn't want to hear the answer. He didn't want to know if the answer would be the same whether Dean included himself or not.

"Bobby and Ellen would be happy for me! I thought you would be, too!" Great, so now Dean needed a guilt trip on top of all of it? "And Dad—," he laughed dryly. "I'd probably see Dad as much as we do now. As for you . . . Dean, you're my brother." His voice was a little softer now, like this was the part of his answer that really mattered. Maybe that should have made Dean feel better but it didn't, because it still wasn't enough. He still wasn't enough to make Sam want to stick around. "We'll still be brothers, Dean. That's never gonna change."

Dean pursed his lips, looked away again. "So, why not go some place closer? You really wanna get out of Lawrence that bad?"

"Yes," he answered frankly, and Dean almost flinched. "Ever since . . . When Jess . . ." He shook his head to stay his emotions, his eyes shining a little in the colored light. "And besides. I want to go to Stanford. I've wanted to for a long time."

Dean stared at him, trying his best to look straight through him like he didn't care. "Stanford," he repeated. "And how you gonna pay for that, smart guy? Huh?" Because Dean wouldn't. He was already paying for the books for one college education. He couldn't do another one, especially if this one came with room and board and tuition. Didn’t he have a life of his own?

Sam took a deep breath in, looking at Dean levelly. "I wouldn't have to," he said, so quiet that Dean almost didn't hear it over the whoosh of a passing car.

He turned his ear towards Sam. "What?" He didn't know if it was a hope or something more concrete—but it couldn't be. Sam couldn't possibly know that yet. He was a damn sophomore, for Christ's sake!

"I wouldn't have to." Sam's eyes were big now, almost apologetic. "I've been talking to the admissions office. Someone at my internship put me in touch with a contact they have there. They said they think I have a pretty good chance at a full ride. Already."

Dean didn't know what to say to that. He felt his jaw unhinge, but he didn't know how to close his mouth. He was pretty sure his base motor functions were on the fritz.

That was it. Sam didn’t need him anymore. Sam was gonna leave. Maybe not today or tomorrow, but it was coming. Sam was gone. Outta here. Flying to coop. Poof.

And the worst part was, Dean was proud of him. He was so damn proud he couldn't stand it. Because a full ride? To law school? At Stanford? It was kind of unbelievable. That didn't happen to kids from the projects of some random mid-western town. That only happened to people like the Novaks.

Dean was so proud of him, and he should have told him, but instead what came out was, "Lawrence is your home."

Sam's throat rippled. He stayed quiet for a long time, like he was trying to arrange his words in such a way that would hurt Dean the least. Dean was, at least, thankful for that. But it was still a blow when Sam told him, "Man, I don't—I don't remember what it was like before, okay? When Mom was still around. I don't remember our old house or—any of it. All I remember is moving around. And, yeah, we've been in Lawrence way longer than any other place, but . . ." He pressed his lips together, because this was the part that was going to hurt. "Most of the time, it still feels like it's just another town until we pack up and go to the next one. So, I’m sorry, but if I get that scholarship—I’m going."

Dean closed his eyes. He heard his throat click as he swallowed, but that was just about the only thing that registered anymore.

He'd tried so hard to build a home for Sam—a life. He tried so hard to keep him on the straight and narrow, to put a roof over his head and shoes on his feet and food in his stomach. And he'd do it all again. But he didn't know how he'd do it better, or if he even could. Because, apparently, he'd screwed it up somehow, and Sam wanted a different life.

Ha. Who wouldn't?

Dean nodded, and felt his lips twist downward. He opened his eyes to look at Sam, and pulled at his mouth. The only thing he could feel was the cash in his pocket, and he really didn't care what he'd have to do to get more. Because, right now, he just needed to use it to get a drink. Or several.

"Okay, Sam," he said, pretending like he wasn't breaking down. "You're so desperate to walk out—be my guest."

He didn't wait for an answer. He stomped towards the Impala, already digging in his jeans for the keys.

"Wait, Dean—," Sam called, suddenly sounding so sorry. He let out a thick sound, and Dean just wasn't interested. He kept walking. "Dean, hang on."

Dean got into the car and started the engine, barely letting it turn over before backing out of the space so violently the tires squealed. He didn't look at Sam as he peeled out onto the road, but out of the corner of his eyes, he saw his brother staring after the car, holding his arm out like he could stop a moving vehicle.

Dean kept driving. It took him a minute to realize his knuckles hurt from how tight he was gripping the steering wheel, and his teeth were killing him with how he was grinding them. Quickly, he glanced at himself in the rear view mirror, and he looked ugly. He couldn't stand it. He couldn't stand any of it. He wanted it to go away, but he didn't know if he could make it—not with booze or smoking or sex or anything.

Or maybe there was one thing.

He wished he wasn't so far away from home, because he would drive straight to Cas'. He had half a mind to drive there, anyway.

///

“—and then, outta nowhere, this guy shows up and starts throwing beads everywhere like it’s fuckin’ Mardi Gras.”

It had been seven weeks and two days since Dean left for his road trip. It had been much longer than Castiel anticipated. When Dean had originally told him it might last two months, he’d been hoping that was an overestimate. But Castiel did his best not to damper Dean’s mood by saying so. Instead, he laid back on top of the sheets of his bed and listened to Dean’s story of a wine bar-slash-backyard jazz club he’d gone to in New Orleans the previous night.

“It was awesome. This town is a free for all.”

Castiel found himself smiling at the warmth and happiness in Dean’s tone. “It sounds like quite the experience.”

“Yeah, it was probably the most fun night out of the whole trip. I mean, so far, anyway.”

Dean’s tone had been so casual as he said the last part, as if he were expecting to continue his vacation for the foreseeable future. Castiel’s smile faded at the corners, something in his chest turning numb at the thought of it.

“Good,” he said. “That, um—.” He fought back a yawn. It was getting late and he had an exam tomorrow that he still needed to cram for, but he wanted to keep talking to Dean. They texted every day, but their calls were infrequent, and Castiel liked hearing his voice. “That’s good, Dean.”

On the other end of the line, he could hear the static hiss of a breeze and the distant foghorns of cargo ships. He imagined Dean, standing in the humid air along the Mississippi, looking out onto the water as he leaned over the railing between the land and the river. He bet the climate was agreeing with Dean, tanning his skin and making every line of him soft.

“People are different down here, you know?” Dean said, sighing wistfully. “Along the River, I mean. Kinda feels like . . . I dunno. Life’s more of an adventure.”

Castiel’s smile turned sad. His life had been anything but an adventure recently. He felt himself slipping into his old patterns and schedules. Yes, Charlie and Jo were still around, and he’d gotten to know them a little better this summer, along with Charlie’s friend Kevin, who sometimes joined them when he didn’t have his nose in a book. And there was Meg. Somehow, their friendship had found its footing again. Their relationship still felt strained at times, and Castiel still wasn’t certain how to speak to her most days, but he’d spent a good amount of his time off this summer picking through Dean’s DVD list with her.

But none of them were Dean, and their company didn’t make Castiel feel the same as Dean’s did. He missed Sam, as well, but on the rare occasions Dean handed the phone over for Sam to say hello, Castiel did not feel the same ache as he did when he spoke to the older Winchester.

He missed Sam differently. Mostly, he was glad Sam was enjoying his summer. Selfishly, he hoped Dean wasn’t enjoying himself too much so he would come back home already.

Castiel still wasn’t properly convinced that was ever going to happen.

“Ah, whatever,” Dean said flippantly. “You know it’s late when I start talking like John friggin’ Keats. What about you? Am I missing anything?”

Castiel stared up at his ceiling and shook his head until he realized Dean couldn’t see him. “No.” That was the same answer he always gave, and he was beginning to feel guilty about that. Pressed for something to contribute, he offered, “Meg and I watched _Reservoir Dogs_ last night.”

Dean was quiet for a second, and Castiel pulled his phone away from his ear to ensure the call hadn’t dropped before he heard another horn sound off.

“Oh. That’s,” Dean said, his voice a little higher than before. “Cool. You like it?”

“I think I preferred _Pulp Fiction_ , if I had to choose. They were both extremely violent.”

“That’s how you know they’re awesome,” Dean insisted.

“Of course.”

There was another pause, and Castiel thought Dean might say goodnight, but then he said, “So, uh. Dad figures we got a couple more weeks left to finish up the last leg of the trip before we head home.”

Castiel froze. When his body kicked back into life, it was as if everything within him was moving faster to make up for the lost seconds. His blood rushed in his ear and his skin buzzed. He could feel his own heartbeat.

Dean was coming home.

He sat up in bed. “Really? Two weeks?” he tried not to sound as exhilarated as he felt.

“Yeah, give or take. So, guess I’ll be seeing you soon. Think I’ll make it to the grand opening of the park?”

Castiel’s eyes flickered to the day planner on his nightstand that he used to track his school assignments. He reached for it and opened it up to confirm the date of the park opening. It was in a little over a week.

“No. It’s next Saturday,” he said. He wasn’t too concerned about Dean missing the festivities. As much as he would appreciate the boost of confidence Dean’s presence would give him in pretending to grin and maintain the image of the perfect family while he was at the podium with his siblings, Dean probably wouldn’t enjoy it.

“Okay,” Dean said, seeming to consider it. “Well, when do summer classes end?”

“Finals are in two weeks.” Finally. Castiel was eager to have some free time where he didn’t have to worry about school.

“Sweet. We’ll have some time to chill before fall semester starts.”

Castiel’s grin spread slowly when he heard that. Perhaps he and Dean could salvage something of a summer together. He didn’t want to be presumptuous, but he had a few ideas on how to spend their down time.

“I’d like that.”

“Great. So, uh, I’ll text you tomorrow. But if I don’t talk to you again . . .”

Castiel nodded, and again remembered this wasn’t a face-to-face conversation. “Right. Of course.” He was so excited about Dean returning that he didn’t even mind saying goodbye for the interim. “Goodnight, Dean.”

“’Night, Cas.”

After a second, the call ended. Castiel stared down at the picture of Dean in the Redwoods on his phone's screen until it went dark, and he bit down on his bottom lip to control his happiness.

Two weeks.

Dean was coming home.


	12. Chapter 12

The Impala jounced and rattled as the front tires hit a small ditch in the lawn. Dean gritted his teeth, as if he could feel the physical pain of his car—and he might as well have. The Impala was basically an extension of himself at this point, even more so after the last couple of months; or was he an extension of it? After all, she was here first.

Either way, Dean needed to take her in to replace the brakes soon. But none of that was important right now—or, at least, not as important as what he was about to do. He was about to see Cas again, for the first time in eight weeks. For the first time since they kissed.

It had been about a week since their last phone call, when Dean had lied to him about when he was getting back to Lawrence. He wanted to surprise Cas, but now he thought that was the worst idea anyone's ever had in the history of the world, including that time Napoleon tried to invade Russia in the winter (and he felt like a nerd for even knowing that, but it was a piece of trivia he'd picked up from Cas somewhere down the line).

The bad idea was probably made even worse by the fact that this was such a public setting. Way more public than Dean had been anticipating, actually.

It was the grand opening of the Novak's park, and it felt like the entire state of Kansas and possibly Nebraska had shown up for the event. He drove around the shiny new parking lot, painted with fresh, bold white and yellow lines that were blinding in the intense sunlight, for close to a half hour before giving up. The lot was so full that the cars were practically on top of each other, some in spaces that weren't even real spaces, and there was no way Dean was risking his baby getting clipped by some distracted soccer mom in a minivan.

More cars were parked on the makeshift overflow lot on the lawn, and Dean found a spot easily enough on the very edge of the last row on the side of the road. With his windows rolled down, he could hear the whirling tune of fairground music and the buzzing of a thousand different conversations blending together. Over it all was the indistinct booming and warbling of someone speaking into a microphone at a distance.

Maybe Dean should turn around and go home, and he could surprise Cas tomorrow in a more private setting. After getting back into town, he'd dropped Sam at home, but he was probably gone by now, eager to catch up with his friends, Andy and Ava. And they'd parted ways with Dad a few days ago, when they dropped him off in Oklahoma for another job. So Dean could afford to chicken out without losing his street cred.

But that was crazy, right?

It was Cas. Cas would be happy to see him. It'd be just like old times.

Except, no it wouldn't be. Dean knew that in the marrow of his bones—and, what the hell did that even mean? People couldn't feel their bone marrow. That was a stupid phrase, and it made no sense, but fuck, if he wasn't nauseous down to a subatomic level. His palms were slippery against the steering wheel, and that had nothing to do with the blazing heat of the midwestern sun baking the leather through the windshield like he was an ant under a magnifying glass.

All summer, he'd built up in his imagination what things would be like when he came back. Things would be different—because he was different after this summer. He was ready to have somebody, to make it work, but only if it was with Cas.

And Cas would probably be different, too, because that's what summer did. It changed people. And Dean had been gone for eight whole weeks. What if Cas didn't like Dean anymore? What if distance actually didn't make the heart grow fonder, but instead allowed Cas to realize just how out of Dean's league he actually was? And what if Cas didn't even want to be a couple in the first place, had never wanted to? Hell, it's not like they talked about it. Dean just kissed him and then left—and who the fuck does that? Maybe Cas didn't want to be anything but friends, after all, and Dean had gotten his hopes up for nothing?

Dean head was swimming dizzyingly and there was a pressure in his gut that was threatening to force its way up his throat as he got out of the car and walked towards the park. He wasn't really paying attention to his surroundings, but from what he could make out, it was a nice place. There was a one-story information center pavilion with bathrooms and vending machines in the center of the park, and picnic tables were placed nearby, where three brick-based barbecues were in a line for people to use. In the distance, there was a playground a couple of yards away from the lake, with slides and a swing set and all the standard playground equipment, and some fancier additions like a water feature for kids to run through. A sizable gazebo was situated a little closer to the water, near a long jetty that jutted out far into the lake that ended in a pergola with bench seating. A winding brick-lined walking path branched off in all directions. All of it was already in use.

There were some temporary features for opening day, like fair games lined with giant stuffed prizes and raffle booths fundraising for the high school's football team. An alarm chimed every time someone won something, which seemed like it was a constant occurrence, adding to the cacophony. Kids scampered around with giant swirled lollipops and colorful cotton candy, and a small girl wailed with a scoop of ice cream melting on the grass at her feet and a sticky, empty sugar cone in her fist. The air was permeated with the mouthwatering scent of fried dough and fried—well, everything. Recycling bins were overflowing and flies were swarming around garbage cans. A face painting booth was set up, and there was a clown twisting together balloon animals, and Dean would have taken a picture and sent it to Sam just to fuck with him if he hadn't been so consumed with holding himself together.

All in all, it looked like the carnival was in town, and Dean probably should have been expecting a spectacle. Dean was honestly surprised there wasn’t a Ferris wheel. Say what you want about them, but whenever the Novaks unveiled anything with their name on it, they did it in style.

He knew some people who would probably disagree with that on principle—namely, the group of protestors grouped together, and supervised by a few uniformed cops so they didn't get too rowdy, on the sidewalk that he'd driven past on his way in. Dean hoped Charlie wasn't in the cluster, because it wasn't exactly like his car was inconspicuous. But he told himself it was okay, because he wasn't there to spend money. He was there to see Cas.

And he had no fucking idea how he'd even find him with this many people shouldering past him from all directions.

Slowly, as Dean walked further into the park, the voice coming from the speakers became a little easier to make out, and Dean realized he recognized it. It was Michael Novak. He stopped short, listening for what direction it was coming from. He could still only make out every couple of words, but he thought it was coming from the other side of the pavilion, closer to the water. If he'd find Cas anywhere right now, it'd be there, and he knew he'd better get moving before the speech was over and Cas was lost again.

Dean's heart was pounding in his throat now, and he was pretty sure he'd choke on his own spit if he tried to talk, but he knew he had to do this. And if things went south, then at least he'd know sooner than later.

He shoved through the crowd towards the building, and the speech Michael was giving eventually became clearer.

" . . . what we do at Evangelist. Thirty-six years ago, my father opened the doors to our very first office on the outskirts of downtown. It was a one-room rental above a Chinese restaurant. I remember visiting him there as a child with my mother. I still can't eat a spring roll without thinking of my father at his desk making cold calls to every business in the phone book." He paused then as a swell of polite laughter echoed from the lawn.

Dean rounded the corner to find a tightly knit group of at least two hundred bodies standing around, all looking in the same direction. Right next to the pavilion, which acted like a shield against the hot sun, a temporary sound stage was set up. Two large speakers were on stands on either side, and there was a giant banner above it reading _Welcome to the Charles G. Novak Park and Recreation Center_ , with Evangelist's winged logo next to it.

Dean realized Michael was still speaking. "But my father persisted in his efforts, tirelessly driven by one question: What does this community want? He had some ideas, and I'll share them with you today—."

Suddenly, all of Dean's worries fell away. He couldn't see anyone on the stage above the heads of the massive crowd, but he knew Cas was up there. It wasn't just logic telling him that; it was something else. Something beyond reason.

Cas was there. He could feel it in the marrow of his bones, or whatever.

Dean just needed to see him. Whatever else there was, it didn't matter. They'd work it out—all the kinks and road bumps and everything that was suddenly different and new and full of equal parts fear and promise. Dean just needed to see him and everything else would fall into place.

He started to squeeze through the crowd, making his way to the front, towards Cas, as Michael droned on about exactly how Chuck Novak decided to "improve" Lawrence.

"And, lastly, my father believed our community needed a place where we could all gather, to come together to enjoy all that God has given us," he was saying. "I speak for everyone on this stage when I say, we at Evangelist think of these principles with every decision we make, not just in our professional lives, but in our personal lives, as well."

Dean was on a mission, but he still had the presence of mind to think, _gimme a break_.

"These were the principles instilled in us by our father. So, I ask you, people of Lawrence: What do you want? I believe we've made great strides in answering that question today, and in every day leading up to the opening of our community's new gathering place. Every step of its construction was a labor of love, and I feel it has brought my family and I closer together. We sincerely hope you love it, too, and that Lawrence will become stronger through it."

Dean kept elbowing at the people around him, squeezing his way to the very front so that Cas would be able to see him. People grunted and said things like “watch it” or “ _excuse_ me,” when Dean shoved past them, but he barely heard them.

“Finally, I’d like to thank the efforts of all those who volunteered in the clean up of this once destitute lot,” Michael continued, and a few people in white t-shirts and visors with Evangelist’s logo on them clapped for themselves.

Dean was about three rows deep when he saw Cas’ familiar mop of tangled hair come into view. Dean’s heart rate kicked up and he shoved even harder, until he was able to see the rest of Cas.

“Without them, none of us would be here today.”

Cas was in a dark navy suit, even though it was balls-degrees outside, and he stood on the stage behind Michael at the podium. The rest of the Novaks were there, too, all of them with their hands folded primly behind their backs as they quietly watched Michael deliver his speech. Dean’s eyes swept across the line of them—Raphael, Anael and her boyfriend that Cas once mentioned was one of her talk show’s producers, and Uriel. He stopped in his tracks. Meg was up there, too, standing right next to Cas, looking bored.

“So, why don’t I stop talking so that we can fully enjoy our new park?” Michael said with a smile, wrapping up his speech.

Meg turned her head to look at Cas, catching his attention. He smiled softly at her, and her hand slipped into his, squeezing it quickly before letting go again. Dean was gonna really be sick this time.

“May the Charles Goddard Novak Park and Recreation Center be a place for our community to gather for years to come.”

There was applause all around, but Dean was frozen. His throat was clogged with something thick and hot.

At that moment, Cas’ eyes swept to him, their gazes connecting. Cas stood up a little straighter, his expression alert.

Dean realized his mouth was hanging open. He shut it into a firm line.

The Novaks were leaving the stage, and around him the crowd was dispersing. Cas spun quickly on his heels and power-walked past his brothers and sister, all of them giving him sideways glances, towards the stairs on the edge of the platform. Meg was left at the end of the line.

Dean couldn’t do this. He couldn’t hear Cas tell him that their kiss meant nothing, that him and Meg were stronger than ever, that she was attending friggin’ ribbon cutting ceremonies as his date and going to Novak Sunday friggin’ dinner and they were madly in love. Every hope and expectation he’d built up over the summer came crumbling down, and he couldn’t let Cas stomp on the rubble.

He turned tail and rushed as quickly as he could away from the stage. He heard his name being called over the crowd, but he ignored it.

Whatever. It was whatever. They never talked about what the kiss meant, so it was fine if it meant nothing to Cas. Dean shouldn’t have built it up so much in his head. It’s not like he expected Cas to break up with Meg and wait for him for two months.

Whatever. Cas could do whatever he wanted. And so could Dean. Dean wasn’t relationship material, anyway, so it was better this way. It all worked out.

Dean was doing his best not to hyperventilate until he reached his car.

He unlocked it with shaky hands and slid inside. The air was tight and stifling as the leather sat in the sun, but Dean gripped the steering wheel, not caring that it was burning his palms. He needed his hands to stop shaking.

He was sucking in deep bouts of air when the passenger door opened and Cas slid in, making Dean jump. That asshole was wearing a blinding, lopsided smile on his face and was looking at Dean like nothing was wrong.

“I was beginning to think you were a hallucination,” Cas told him without even saying hi first. “You said you wouldn’t be back for another week.”

Dean gulped down his anxiety. “Yeah, well . . . Surprise.” His voice sounded weak.

Cas’ smile only grew and, shit, Dean wanted to punch him. And kiss him. And punch him again. _Shit_.

“Welcome back, Dean.”

Dean’s spine rattled at the sound of his name, said so soft and sweet. Cas could create an entire language just with the different ways he said Dean’s name; but, for the life of him, Dean couldn’t figure out this one’s meaning.

“Yeah,” Dean answered, the word barely making it out of his throat.

“Dean?” There it was again. It meant confusion and concern. His hand rested on Dean’s elbow, and Dean ripped it away like it burned. Cas’ expression shifted to pain, his hand still hovering between them. “I don’t understand. What—? Did I do something wrong?”

Dean shook his head wildly. “No.” That was a lie. “No way. You just—You got an event to get back to, right? Novak Rec Center or whatever. And your _girlfriend_ is probably wondering where the hell you went.” He said the word like it contained venom, and Cas reacted to it bodily.

“My _what_?”

“Meg.” Another poisonous word.

Cas tilted his head to the side and squinted at him, and, god, Dean missed that. He missed Cas. But, apparently, Cas hadn’t missed him.

“Dean—.”

“Cas. It’s fine. Look, we never—.” He licked his lips, and swallowed his pride. “We kissed like, twice, okay? And it’s not like we ever brought it up again. And I was gone. No big whoop.”

“Dean.”

“It’s cool if it didn’t mean anything. It didn’t mean anything to me, either. So, let’s just forget it ever happened.”

“ _Dean_.” He sounded angry, like storm clouds were building and if Dean didn’t shut up, there’d be thunder. Then, Cas sighed and looked up at the roof of the car like everything was so unfortunate. “Meg isn’t my girlfriend.”

Dean blinked. What the fuck did that mean? He _just_ saw them making googly eyes at one another in front of the whole fucking town! “Huh?”

“I broke it off with her the day you left.”

“But . . .” But he _saw_ them! “Are you two still . . .?”

“Still what?”

Of course, he’d have to spell it out. This was Cas he was talking to.

“Still—you know!” He waved his hands around. He settled on making an obscene gesture with his thumb and pointer finger in a circle on one hand and his opposite pointer finger.

Cas seemed to get the message, even though he only looked more confused. “No, Dean, we were never—that was one time—we only—.”

“ _What_?”

“Meg is only here because I didn’t want to speak with my siblings after the ceremony,” Cas told him. “It works for Anael. Things have been . . . tenser than usual, and I thought if I brought company, I could escape them. She was here for moral support. As a _friend_.”

Dean blinked again, his mouth hanging open like a damn idiot. “Oh. So you too aren’t . . .?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

Dean looked down at his hands. How had he managed to fuck everything up and he hadn’t even been back in town for a full hour yet?

But then Cas said his name again, and it was gentle and kind and it filled Dean to the brim with something he wasn’t sure he could put a name to. Cas’ finger lifted Dean’s chin and guided him so they could look at each other again.

“It didn’t mean ‘nothing’ to me.”

Fuck, Dean wanted to kiss him again, and Cas must have read his mind, because he closed the space between them and pressed his lips to Dean’s. Dean responded instantly, his hands flying up to Cas’ tie and wrapping it around his fist. He pulled him in closer, until the back of his head was pressed against the window and Cas was practically on top of him in the driver’s seat.

Cas shifted his angle a little, swiveling to sit on his knees so he could get better access to Dean’s mouth, and Dean turned to face him more fully. But his elbow connected with the horn on the steering wheel, and a loud blast broke the moment.

“Shit,” Dean cursed under his breath, turning his face fractionally away from Cas to glare at the steering wheel. Cas’ breath was coming out rapidly and puffing against his face, and when Dean turned back to him, he saw Cas’ lips were bruised and full. A giddy rush went through Dean when he realized he was the reason for all that.

And he also realized they were in a very public parking lot at a very crowded event.

“Hey?” Dean said softly.

“Yes, Dean?”

Cas’ voice was a low rumble and Dean gave a full body shudder. He had to get them out of there before he came in his pants.

“Think you can slip away for a while so we can go somewhere a little more private?”

“I don’t think my presence would be missed that much.”

“Awesome.”

Cas leaned back to sit in the passenger seat again, and the sudden absence of him made Dean a little dizzy. But he managed to turn the key in the ignition and back out of the parking space, directly into the road behind them. The tires squealed as he shifted into drive without fully braking, and they took off down the road.

He didn’t even know where he was taking them. He wracked his mind trying to think of a place where people would be scarce on a Saturday afternoon.

Wait.

The college campus. No one would be around.

Without warning, he cut the wheel to the right to turn down another road and made for the college. The whole drive, Cas’ arm was hanging out the window. He sat back in his seat, looking more at ease than Dean had ever seen him, and the wind was messing with his hair in a way that made Dean’s fingers jealous they weren’t the cause of it. He looked so damn _right_ just sitting there, and Dean couldn’t stop himself from grabbing Cas’ hand on the seat between them and bringing it to his lips.

Cas bit at his lip and looked down sheepishly.

When they finally reached the campus, Dean took them to one of the parking lots near the law buildings where he sometimes picked Sam up. It was a pretty secluded area, a few empty buildings hovering over it on three sides, and acres of farmland stretching out on the other.

Dean put the car in park, but left the engine on. He fiddled with the radio for a few seconds until he found a smooth rock station. Sometimes, those kinds of stations played the newer stuff. He was pretty sure it was playing John Mayer at the moment, but he didn’t care. It was just setting the mood, anyway. He’d barely be listening.

He turned to Cas, who was giving him another one of his intense looks, but this one hungry. They met in the middle, smiling against each other’s mouths. Eventually, Dean ended up on his back, legs spread out on the bench seat and head propped against the window. Cas’ hips were between his raised knees as Cas sprawled out on top of him, fingers in Dean’s hair as they kissed. His body heat added to the still air around them, but Dean wasn’t about to kick him out of bed for it.

Cas’ suit jacket got lost in the back seat at one point, and his tie was looser than usual. Dean had managed to pull his button up out of the back of his pants, and his fingers were brushing against the small of his back.

After a while, their kisses became less hurried, less feverish. They were languid and drowsy and Dean felt his breath tripping with the tenderness of it all. His cheeks were scratched red by Cas’ stubble and his lips were swollen and wet, and it was the best damn make out session he’d ever had.

“I missed you, Dean,” Cas told him when they broke for air. He nuzzled his nose against the hollow of Dean’s cheek.

“Me, too,” Dean said. “Sorry I freaked out back there. Guess I thought you liking me was too good to be true.”

Cas lifted himself up just a little bit, enough to meet Dean’s eyes. His gaze was severe and compassionate at once. “Don’t ever think that.”

Dean swallowed. He couldn’t help thoughts like those. But he said, “Okay. I just—you know—.” He didn’t want Cas to ditch him the second he realized he was too good for him, and he belonged with some rich chick from the same world as him. “Wanna make sure I can make you happy.”

Cas pressed a kiss to the corner of Dean’s mouth. “You already make me happy,” he said.

Dean closed his eyes into the words, letting them sink in. When he opened them again, he said, “Just promise, next big event, I get to be the one up there holding your hand.”

Cas’ grin grew as he leaned back in. Dean could feel the shape of it against his lips.

“I thought you hated the Novak family.”

“Turns out one of them ain’t so bad.”

Cas hummed, and kissed him again. And they stayed that way for a long time.

///

They didn’t return to the festivities, but Castiel was more than okay with that. He doubted anyone would notice he was gone, and he’d much rather spend time getting reacquainted with Dean, who had suggested they go to his apartment. Apparently, Sam was sleeping over at a friends’ that night, and Castiel liked the idea of them having “the place to themselves,” as Dean put it.

The sun had set by the time they drove to the apartment, passing by the bright stadium lights shining down on the new park, and passing through downtown. It was still hot, despite the hour, and Castiel closed his eyes into warm breeze hitting his face from the rolled down window. He doubted the temperature would drop very much, and there wasn’t any rain in the forecast for the next week.

It wasn’t much cooler in the Winchesters’ apartment, despite the windows being open, but Castiel found it difficult to keep his hands off of Dean regardless. They kissed all the way from the complex’s dark stairwell to Dean’s bedroom, Dean’s hand on his wrist and laughter on his breath pulling Castiel along. They broke long enough for Dean to turn on the fan in the corner of his room, the motor whirring to create a background noise and the blades doing little more than circulating the heat through the room.

Dean had sweat lining his clavicle, and Castiel pressed his mouth there to lick it off.

They lowered themselves onto Dean’s mattress to continue their so-called “make out session,” only it was far more intimate than they had been allowed in the bench seat of the Impala. Castiel was able to lift Dean’s shirt over his head and kiss his chest, to explore the soft skin of his belly and the tenderness of his lower abdomen. He was able to see what made Dean’s skin goose bump, what made him sigh or laugh or gasp or hiss, what made him breathe out or moan Castiel’s name.

It was wonderful.

Dean’s hands raking through his hair, his legs wrapping around Castiel’s hips, the way his body moved and shuddered under Castiel’s touch—all of it was wonderful.

It was even better when Dean got him out of his shirt and pants, and they were both stripped down to their boxers. His tongue lapped up the beads of sweat on Castiel’s shoulders and his teeth grazed his chest. Dean breathed against Castiel’s neck, his nose nuzzled against his jaw. Every inch of Dean’s bare body against his made Castiel almost incoherent—and he wanted more. Needed more.

“Dean,” he heard himself say on a panting breath. There was an ache deep inside of him that longed to be closer to Dean, to have their bodies move as one.

Dean’s laugh filled him up. “It’s so fuckin’ hot, Cas,” he said, his voice gritty and choppy with exertion. “You _would_ pick the hottest fuckin’ day of the year for this.”

Castiel wanted to remind him that Dean was the one who showed up at the park out of the blue, but it hardly mattered. He wrapped his fingers around the back of Dean’s neck. “We should find a better reason to sweat, then,” he said, and pulled him in for another long, greedy kiss. Dean’s body started to rock into his, and it took a moment for Castiel to notice that his own hips were caught up in the rhythm.

“Fuck,” Dean said when the kiss broke, and Castiel had to agree. Dean rolled Castiel onto his back and started kissing down his body, along the band of Castiel’s boxers. His palms went to either of Castiel’s hips, and he glanced up to lock onto his eyes. “You good?”

Castiel swallowed hard, hearing his throat click. He nodded fervently.

Dean pulled his boxers down, and hummed with wry satisfaction with how aroused he’d managed to make Castiel. He dragged his mouth on Castiel’s hips, sucked on the inside of his thighs, and Castiel could feel his heart pulsing in the trail Dean’s mouth left behind. Dean’s cheek kept brushing against the side of Castiel’s dick, making Castiel writhe and grunt with impatience.

“ _Dean_.”

“I’m gettin’ there, babe,” Dean said, his voice rough.

 _Babe_. Castiel thought he liked that.

But then all thoughts left him when Dean wrapped his lips around him, his mouth even more saturated with heat than the room around them. A loud sound punched its way out of Castiel as he bucked up into him, seeking out Dean’s mouth. Dean’s hand sunk into Castiel’s hipbone to keep him steady. His other fist wrapped around Castiel’s base and twisted gently as the flat of his tongue laved against the tip of Castiel’s cock.

Castiel wasn’t certain he’d ever felt this way. The noises bouncing back to him on the walls sounded foreign, even though they were coming incessantly from his own throat. He gasped, trying to keep himself under control, fighting to keep his stamina so that Dean could continue to do whatever heavenly thing he was currently doing with his tongue.

He reached for the sheets on the bed, bunching them in his fist and feeling one corner rip loose. Dean had to hold him down tighter, and Castiel was certain there would be five bruises tomorrow in the shape of his fingertips. The thought alone was almost enough to send him over the top.

And then his mind blanked when Dean pushed up Castiel’s length, and Castiel could feel the velvety brush of the back of his throat. When Dean swallowed, the muscles of his throat fluttered against Castiel, and Castiel’s vision nearly whited out from it as the pulsing in his cock spread out to the rest of his body. He could feel it in his fingertips.

One of Dean’s hands left Castiel’s hips to massage his inner thigh, and then his fingers trailed down the V of Castiel’s Adonis belt. He thumbed circles against Castiel’s balls.

Dean’s name filled the space in a mantra, until Castiel said it more urgently in warning. He could feel his muscles starting to tense, pressure building up slowly within him that was just about ready to burst. And all he could think about was Dean—Dean was doing this to him. Dean’s mouth was on him, his lips stretched around him and his cheeks hollowing and he was so beautiful.

Dean only hummed nonchalantly around him and gave another long pull. Castiel spilled over into Dean’s mouth, and Dean continued his ministrations, prolonging his orgasm.

When it was over, Castiel let himself sink into the mattress. It was lumpy and uncomfortable with the floor right beneath it, but it was perfect. Everything was perfect.

Dean slid off of him with a wet sound, and his breath was hot on Castiel’s thighs. When it slowed, he crawled back up Castiel’s body and dropped down next to him on his back. He wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist and let out a whooping sound.

Castiel laid still for a few moments, unable to do anything. He felt boneless, one arm slung loosely over his torso. He turned his head to Dean, grinning wildly when he caught his twinkling eyes.

“Good?” Dean asked, and Castiel nodded.

“Very.”

He looked Dean up and down, appreciating his body, until his eyes landed on Dean’s tented boxers. He licked his lips, wanting to repay the favor. Suddenly, his energy was returned to him.

He rolled onto his side, snuggling up against Dean, who put his arm under Castiel and wrapped it across his shoulders.

“Very good,” Castiel said again, pressing a sweet kiss to Dean’s jaw. His palm slid down Dean’s body until the tips of his fingers hit fabric. Without looking, he worked his way beneath the elastic band, and Dean hissed when Castiel’s touch collided with him.

He formed a loose fist around him, running his thumb along the head to gather the moisture there. Dean pushed his head back against the pillows, exposing his neck. Castiel laid kisses to it.

When he tightened his grip around Dean and started pumping his wrist, Dean gave a strangled moan. His eyes skewed shut and his face contorted, and Castiel watched every minuscule shift of his features with rapt attention.

“Fuck, Cas,” Dean breathed out. His hips started moving in time with Castiel. “Got no idea—no idea how many times— _shit_ —I imagined you doin’ this—.”

“Shh,” Castiel told him. “This isn’t one of those times. It’s real.”

Dean’s lips parted on a grunt, and his breath came out in spurts.

“Dean, look at me.”

He wanted to see this. He wanted to know how Dean’s eyes flashed when he came.

Dean only closed them tighter.

“Dean,” Castiel told him sternly.

Dean gave a whining noise, but complied. His eyes met Castiel’s, his pupils blown out.

“Fuck,” he said again. He cursed a lot during sex, more than usual, and Castiel never knew swears could sound so divine. He was making Dean say those things. “ _Fuck_. Say somethin’ else. Cas. Tell me what to do.”

Castiel didn’t know what to say. He licked his lips in thought, and the motion caught Dean’s focus. He stared down at Castiel’s lips.

“Dean, look at me,” Castiel told him, recapturing his gaze. “Keep looking at me. Don’t close your eyes.”

Dean’s breath was uneven. His movements were stuttering.

Castiel tightened his grip around him, pumping his fist up one side of Dean’s length, twisting at the head, and going back down the other side. Dean jerked his hips back and forth into the touch.

Castiel wanted to do more. He wanted to take Dean in his mouth, but he was new to that, and he wanted to make this good for Dean. This, at least, he knew how to do, even if he’d never done it on anyone else.

But, if the sounds Dean was making as he gasped for air were any indication, Castiel was doing okay. And the response Dean was giving him was enough to make him half-hard again. He pressed himself into the side of Dean’s hip, and tried not to grind into him, but Dean’s body was still pulsing and jerking and it felt so good.

Castiel didn’t know what came over him just then. But it was suddenly imperative that Dean know—that Castiel say it.

“I love you, Dean.”

Dean sucked in a gasp, and his eyes went glossy and wild. His body buckled, and Castiel felt him spill over onto his hand, hot and sticky. It was the most beautiful thing Castiel had ever seen.

He released Dean, bringing his hand back up. Dean laid back for a while, simply breathing. Then, he flung his arm over his eyes, burying them into the crook of his elbow.

Castiel went cold then, wondered if he’d gone too far, said something wrong. He shouldn’t have said anything.

“Dean, I—,” he started, and stopped. What could he say to make this right? What could he say to keep Dean from kicking him out? He ruined everything.

“I shouldn’t have—I’m sorry.”

Dean suddenly ripped his arm away and stared back at Castiel with a hard, unreadable expression. “You’re _sorry_?” he repeated, sounding furious.

“I—.”

Dean scoffed. “You’re sorry. You goddamn idiot.”

Castiel was confused, especially when Dean grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him into a hard kiss. These were very mixed messages.

When the kiss broke, Dean’s lips hovered close. His eyes were still shut when he said, “I do, too.”

There was a moment when Castiel didn’t understand his meaning, but then it dawned on him. And it was like every moment of happiness he’d ever felt until that point paled in comparison.

“You do?”

Dean nodded. “Mmm. Since that night we watched that crappy Abe Lincoln movie.”

Castiel blinked. “The one with the vampires?”

“Mhm.”

“I didn’t think it was crappy.”

Dean laughed and laid back down on his pillow, his eyes were open again and his expression was sated. “Yeah, it was pretty awesome.”

Castiel smiled down at Dean’s chest before saying, coyly, “I did since the first time we went to Benny’s diner together.”

Dean pulled his brows together. “Wasn’t Meg there?”

Meg. Castiel had left her at the park. It was hard to feel guilty about it. Besides, the whole town was there. She would have found someone else to occupy her.

He raised an eyebrow, unconcerned. “Was she?”

Dean’s next bout of laughter wasn’t audible, but he smiled widely for a long time and his eyes shone with it. After a few minutes, he reached up towards his nightstand and opened the drawer. His grip on Castiel’s back strengthened to balance himself from rolling off the mattress. He came back with a packet of wet wipes.

It was absurd.

“You keep those in your bedroom?”

Dean mocked offense. “Hey! I _just_ told you I lost count of how many times I jerked off thinking about you. Give a guy some credit.”

Yes. Absurd. And Castiel loved him.

“That’s very romantic of you.”

“Thanks.”

They cleaned themselves off, and then continued to lay together. It was still stifling hot, and Castiel’s skin was sticking to Dean’s uncomfortably, but he didn’t want to move. Somehow, despite the temperature, he drifted off to sleep, his head still on Dean’s shoulder, and his limbs still curled around him.

///

Castiel woke up with his cheek pressed against the pillow and was immediately uncomfortable. The sheet under him was so humid that it felt like he was stomach-down on a bed of paste. The air around him wasn't much better—soupy and sticky and thick. It was almost a physical weight on his bare skin.

He grunted, half in exhaustion and half in disgust, and slapped the sheet in search for Dean across the bed, wanting to wake him up and tell him to do something about the heat. He’d seen an AC window unit in the corner of Dean’s room earlier and wondered why it wasn’t plugged in. However, Dean didn’t appear to be there. Blearily, he blinked awake and squinted at the wall next to the empty bed.

The droning of the fan on high ebbed into his senses, and he looked around to find Dean leaning in front of it, playing with the settings. He looked at the clock next, wincing at the light from the red numbers. It was just past 3 AM, but the temperature of the room made him wide-awake.

Sighing, he rolled onto his back, hoping the air might cool down his chest. He ran his fingers through his hair, finding it damp and sticking to his forehead.

Dean must have noticed he was awake, because he stopped what he was doing and complained, "It's balls hot."

His voice sounded strange in the dark as it rode the heat waves.

"My apartment has air conditioning," Castiel said, both wistfully and matter-of-factly. Mostly, he said it in offering.

"It's three in the morning, Cas," Dean answered, annoyed. "I'm not driving across town right now."

Castiel groaned, wondering if it was worth the energy to argue. He tried to think cold thoughts.

Glaciers. Polar bears. Ice cubes. Snow angels.

All of them melted far too quickly.

Dean moved to the foot of the mattress, and Castiel noticed he'd changed into fresh boxers. He couldn't help the rush that went through him when he remembered why.

"Come on, get up," Dean told him suddenly.

"What? Dean—."

"I mean it. We're getting out of here."

"You just said—."

"We ain't going far. Come on, put your underwear back on. Meet me in the kitchen."

He didn't leave any room for debate, as he left the room quickly afterwards. Castiel sighed, not wanting to move. His limbs were heavy and his thoughts sluggish. After a few more seconds of lying there, he hauled himself up into a sitting position and searched the tangled blankets that had been kicked to the end of the bed for his boxers. He grumbled as he slipped them on, and instantly felt like he needed a shower. They hung limply off his hips as he walked down the hall, yawning the whole way.

Dean was in the kitchen, rolling a pint of ice cream across the back of his bowed neck. Two spoons were sticking out of his fist. The freezer was still open next to him. The soles of Castiel's feet stuck against the linoleum floor as he paced closer to the icebox. The cold air was a blessing, and he closed his eyes against the sudden chill on his chest. It wasn't nearly enough.

"Hope you like rocky road," Dean said as he regarded the label on the ice cream.

Castiel frowned. "I'm preferable to peanut butter cup."

Dean pulled a face. "Gross. Fake peanut butter? Gross. I can't believe I'm sleeping with you." He smirked playfully when he said it, and Castiel felt his face flush happily against the cold air breathing against his cheeks.

Despite Castiel's sound of protest, Dean closed the freezer and went into the living room, where he picked up a throw blanket and some couch pillows and stuffed them under his arms.

"Okay, follow me."

Castiel squinted at him in suspicion as he went for the main door. "Dean, we aren't dressed."

"Don't worry about it," Dean laughed, and it sounded so delighted that Castiel decided to follow without any more questions. He followed him out of the apartment and up the stairs as high as they would go, until they reached the heavy tin door leading outside.

It was still hot, and the air smelled burnished, but at least it wasn’t as stuffy as it had been inside, and there was a light breeze to make it easier to tolerate. Dean sighed in relief, and Castiel let himself shake off the oppressive feeling he had inside.

Dean spread out the blanket, the ends flapping in the gust of wind before settling on the concrete. The roof was plain—nothing but a few water tanks for the building and a cracked concrete barrier along the edges that stood as tall as Castiel’s waist. Over it, the red and white lights from the cars speeding on the distant highway played against the dark night sky. The sounds of the motorcade reached his ears, and the whistling of an unseen freight train carried on the air. The stars were out, and the moon had already set.

“Me and Sammy used to come up here sometimes when it got too hot and we couldn’t sleep,” Dean was saying, situating the pillows on top of the blanket, as Castiel walked towards the barrier along the edge of the roof and placed his palms on top. It was heated, but cool enough not to burn him. He looked down at the parking lot below, and everything seemed so small from this vantage point.

It was a long way to fall.

“We’d bring up some cold sodas, watch some movies.” Castiel peered over his shoulder to find Dean pointing at the tall, white wall where the door was. “That spot there’s pretty good for a projector. I’ll have to dig that out from somewhere again.” He fussed with the edges of the blanket.

Castiel walked towards him, smiling fondly as he watched him. “I’d like that.”

Dean looked up, eyes creasing with a grin. “Yeah?”

“Yes.”

He sat back on the blanket and opened the pint of ice cream, wasting no time. Castiel sat across from him, folding his legs. As Dean dug at the thawing ice cream, Castiel closed his eyes and let the breeze wash over him. It was peaceful up there, alone with Dean.

“You know, maybe if it’s still this way tomorrow, we can find somewhere to swim,” Dean was saying. “Not a public pool. I’m not trying to swim in other people’s pee. But I was thinking the lake, maybe. We could go to that dock. Maybe hike there this time.”

Castiel opened his eyes again. As much as he wanted to spend the following day with Dean, the reality of Sunday mornings crashed down on him. “I have to be with my family tomorrow,” he said apologetically.

Dean’s features twisted. “Dude. Tell your brothers to cool it with that. It’s _Sunday_.”

He shrugged. The day of the week was inconsequential. “It’s a family meeting.”

“So skip it.”

Dean said it so nonchalantly, like it was nothing. Castiel recalled the last time he skipped out on the meeting, and he wasn’t prepared to do that again. He didn’t know what the consequences would be. Especially now that he was disobeying a direct order from Michael by, not only seeing Dean, but sleeping with him.

In fact, he was so far past disobeying, he was certain he was conducting his own small-scale rebellion. It was kind of thrilling, but he still had to be careful.

He decided not to tell Dean any of this. Their relationship was so new, at least in this capacity, and he didn’t want to give Dean any reason to doubt it.

“I wish it were that simple.”

Dean snorted. “Okay, _vague_.” He offered the ice cream to Castiel, who took it and dug out a spoonful. He didn’t care much for rocky road, but it was refreshing in his mouth and made him feel better. But it wouldn’t last long. The tub was only half full, and the contents were already melting into liquid.

“I’m sure they wouldn’t kill you if you missed it _one_ time,” Dean pressed.

Castiel took another bite of ice cream and held it in his mouth. He surged forward, colliding his lips with Dean’s. Dean hummed, surprised at the sudden mouthful of ice cream, but he didn’t seem to mind. His lips were chilled, and he complied easily when Castiel pushed his shoulders gently down to the blanket.

“I don’t want to talk about my family,” Castiel said when the kiss broke. He was on top of Dean, straddling his hips.

“Okay,” Dean said, blinking up at him. “We don’t have to talk about anything if you don’t want.”

Castiel liked the sound of that. He leaned in again and kissed Dean.

After some time, they both ended up on their sides, chest to chest, limbs entwined as they kissed lazily. The ice cream was forgotten, melted by now and spilling out onto the roof. The floor under them was hard, but Dean was soft and pliant and his lips were like running fingertips across silk.

“Damn, it’s good to be back home,” Dean said in a hushed voice at one point. Castiel hoped he would never leave again, but a nagging feeling in his chest told him it was only a matter of time. That this wasn’t sustainable.

He closed that part of him off, not wanting to deal with it right now.

Right now, he had Dean, his hand gripping onto his shoulder as they kissed so that there would be claw marks on him if anyone tried to take him away.

///

One of the bad things about falling asleep on a roof in the summer time was having to wake up with the bright sunrise at six in the friggin’ morning. It was shaping up to be another sweltering day and, as much as Dean would love to be unconscious for the better half of it, he knew he’d get burned as red as a lobster if they stayed up there for too long. Plus, Cas only had a few hours before he had to leave (which Dean was still trying to devise a way to talk him out of doing) and Dean wanted to spend that time with him.

Conscious.

Awake.

Not in bed.

God, he was in deeper than he’d thought . . .

They were back in the kitchen, Cas sitting at the table with one leg folded underneath him and the other kicking back and forth. Dean was next to the stove spooning fresh batter into circles onto a sizzling skillet. The bacon was settling on a plate lined with paper towels on the counter.

His forehead was glistening from the fire on the burners, despite the window being open. It was too damn hot. As much as he hated the summer temperatures, he had to admit there was something about the heat—it made him feel carnal, more alive.

Or maybe that was thanks to Cas. Dean couldn’t remember the last time he woke up, despite running on a couple hours of intermittent sleep, so relaxed and ready to take on the world.

When the pancakes were done, he stacked two plates high and brought them to the table. The syrup, butter, and two glasses of OJ were already there. He had to remember to call Bobby and thank him for stocking up the fridge for their return. Although, he did forget one thing.

“Sorry we don’t have chocolate chips,” he said, probably for the eleventh time.

Cas primly cut into his pancakes with a fork and knife. He could have been in an instructional video for one of those fancy etiquette classes, if not for the tousled hair and AC/DC t-shirt he borrowed from Dean’s drawers. It was just a little too snug on him, but you wouldn’t find Dean complaining.

“I’m sure they’re delicious regardless.”

“I’m just saying. It is the most important ingredient.” He cut into his own pancakes with his fork, but before he could bring the bite to his mouth, he heard the front door open. Sam shut it quietly, probably thinking Dean was still asleep.

For one selfish second, Dean thought he’d keep it that way. Sam would go to his room and Dean would continue to have Cas all to himself. But it wouldn’t last long. That wasn’t an act they could keep up.

“Yo, Sammy!” he called.

Things had been okay with them for the last couple of weeks, mostly because both of them avoided talking about their fight at all costs. Dean decided to pretend like it didn’t happen, because three years was a long time, after all, so he’d have plenty of time to either shove down his emotions on the subject of Sam leaving him behind or to slowly become more and more bitter about it. Only time would tell. He was excited to find out which it would be.

As for Sam, Dean sometimes caught him shooting over guilty, but not too guilty as to change his mind, glances; but he never tried to discuss it for once. Thank god.

“Dean?” There was a shuffling of feet as Sam approached the kitchen threshold. “I thought I smelled bac—Oh. Hey, Cas.” Sam blinked like a dumbass in the doorway, his mouth parted in surprise before it spread out into a giddy smile.

“Good morning, Sam,” Cas said. “You look well. It’s nice to have you home.”

When Sam spoke, there was breathless laughter in his voice. He gestured palm-up to Cas before aborting the motion and letting his arm fall back to his side. “Yeah, it’s—uh. It’s good to be back.”

“There’s pancakes,” Dean butt in intelligibly. While they were talking, he’d managed to cram his mouth full of food, and it was thick going down his throat. Somehow, Sam understood what he was saying, and went over to the stove to make himself a plate.

“No chocolate chips?” he asked. Dean shot an _I-told-you-so_ look at Cas across the table.

“Did you enjoy your trip?” Cas asked, getting back on track, as Sam came to sit down in the seat between them.

“Yeah, it was great,” was the answer as Sam drizzled syrup onto his pancakes. “We saw a lot of cool stuff. Dad took us up to Mt. Rushmore. It’s so cool how they were able to carve all that into the mountain. I mean—sure, it’s _cool_ , but that spot was sacred land to the Natives in that area, so it kinda sucks that—.”

Dean pretended to fall asleep from boredom, letting out a loud snoring sound. Sam shot him the bitch face as Dean complained, “Dude, he doesn’t wanna hear about that crap this early in the morning.”

“No, it’s okay, Dean,” Cas told him before looking back at Sam. “It does ‘suck.’ Especially considering the monument is part of a national park named after the army general who attempted to drive the Sioux off their land.”

Sam let out another burst of surprised laughter, this one sounding more victorious, and his eyes flickered to Dean in a teasing way. Dean blinked, not understanding how he managed to surround himself with so many nerds.

He sat back and listened to Sam tell Cas about everything they’d seen and done that summer, and he contributed by interjecting certain annotations into the story that Sam blatantly argued with. It had been a good summer, and Dean wouldn’t have traded it for the world. American roads had always been his happy place, and something in him longed to traverse them always. He loved having a home, too, but there was something about freedom that was the most important aspect of life to him. He just couldn’t buy into that nine-to-five life.

But, he found on this trip, his gaze would sometimes wander to the horizons over which the center point of the nation’s map rested. He practically counted the days until he was able to see Cas again. And, now that the road had led him back home, he wasn’t going to waste any more time.

When the easy conversation between Sam and Cas came to its natural stopping point, Cas sighed softly and said, “I should be going.”

Dean frowned. “Only thing you _should_ be doing is getting another helping of pancakes.”

“Dean,” Castiel told him firmly.

“Ah, come on, Cas! Do you really wanna go to _church_? Isn’t it like, the same thing every time?”

“That isn’t the point.” Cas stood up, his chair scraping against the floor as he did, and Dean looked up to hold his gaze. “I’ll need to get my things,” he added before turning to the kitchen’s exit.

“Alright, fine,” Dean acquiesced. “At least let me drive you there.”

Castiel paused abruptly, the line of his shoulder going taut. Dean and Sam shared a curious, fleeting glance, in which Sam silently asked him what the problem was, and Dean silently told him he had no idea.

“I couldn’t ask you to do that,” Cas said, looking over his shoulder.

He didn’t have to ask. Dean just wanted to spend time with him. Hell, he might even go to church if Cas asked him to. “Nah, it’s cool. I should run by Bobby’s anyway.” He started collecting the syrup-stained plates and empty glasses from the table to deposit into the sink.

“Okay,” Castiel said after a beat. “I should go to my apartment to change clothes. I can drive myself from there.” With that, he disappeared towards Dean’s room.

Sam waited all of two seconds before saying, “What was that about?”

Dean shrugged, and ran some water over the pile of dishes. He’d wash them later. “Got me. Dude’s a freak.”

“Yeah, you’d know.”

His back was turned, so he couldn’t see Sam grinning, but he could feel it as his brother stared at his back. Dean let out a breath and slapped his palms to the lip of the sink. It was better to get this over with.

“Alright, let’s hear it.”

“Hear what?”

Dean rounded on him. That stupid smile was still dimpling Sam’s cheeks. “ _Hear what_ ,” he mocked with a whiny tone. “You know what. Go ahead.”

Sam’s voice raised an octave as he said, “No, no, I think you guys are cute. And he’s already got you whipped. I mean—,” he dropped his voice now, and his expression became stoic, doing his best stern Cas impression, “‘ _Dean_.’ I wish I could bottle that.”

“Okay—.”

“And this definitely spares me having to watch you two dance around each other anymore.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Shut up.”

“Just, uh, spare me the gory details, too, Dean, okay? These walls are thin.”

“Shut _up_!”

///

Twenty minutes later, the Impala was pulling up to the front of Cas’ building. Dean killed the engine, his eyes on the front door as he remembered just what had happened the last time he was there.

“You sure you don’t want me to give you a lift to the church?” he asked.

Cas’ eyes were big and blue. “No, thank you, Dean. It would be easier for me to get home after the family meeting if I had my own vehicle.”

“Yeah, about you going home after—.” Dean slid a little closer to him across the leather, and ghosted the tips of his fingers down the side of his neck. He enjoyed the slight shiver it elicited from Cas. “How about you meet me instead? By the lake?”

“I have to study. Finals are next week,” Cas told him point blank.

It was a lame excuse.

“Finals-sminals. You don’t even _like_ what you’re learning!”

“Yes, but I still have to learn it.”

Dean drew his fingers away and replaced them with his lips, hoping that would convince him. Cas made a weak attempt to shoulder him away. “Then bring your books,” Dean whispered against his skin. “I’ll help. We can make flashcards and everything.”

“You’re impossible,” Cas told him. But it sounded like a compliment, especially when he turned his head and dipped down, nosing at Dean for his lips. Dean gave them way too easily.

The kiss lasted; it was slow and sultry and perfect for the summer. Dean tested his luck by leaning back against his door, and it turned out he was very lucky because Cas chased after him. He was practically lying on top of Dean, and Dean lifted one leg to rest it across the seat so he could turn into Cas more fully.

Cas’ hands framed his cheeks as he kissed deeply, taking control by pressing Dean further down into the seat. Soft, needy sounds were pulling out of him and going straight through Dean. Dean dragged his hands down Cas’ spine, still in his band tee, to his slacks. Cas gasped into his mouth when he grabbed his ass.

“What d’you say I come upstairs?” Dean asked, and Cas looked like he was seriously contemplating it. “C’mon, we’ll be quick and dirty. We got so much time to make up for.”

“Later,” Cas told him, and Dean was like a dog with a bone. He looked at Cas through hooded eyes.

“That mean you’ll come to the lake?”

He kneaded his fist into the front of Dean’s shirt and pulled him back in teasingly, brushing their lips together. “Is that what you want, Dean?”

“Only want you, babe.”

He felt Cas’ smile against him. “Then, yes. I’ll meet you at the lake. That way, we can take as much time as we need.”

Dean was already hard just thinking about it.

Cas leaned back, and Dean reluctantly let him go. “Later,” he promised again, and got out of the car. Dean was impatient, but he told himself it’d be worth it. He turned the keys in the ignition and listened to the engine turn over as Cas walked towards the building. He waited until Cas was safely inside before driving off.

///

It was more than difficult to stay awake during mass that morning, between the warmth packed into the room that the opened windows did nothing to prevent, Castiel's lack of sleep, and his recollection of the previous night. Of Dean. He was experiencing thoughts that weren't exactly appropriate for church, but they kept intruding no matter how he attempted to blank his mind. He tried to even out his breath as he squirmed around despite himself on the hard bench seating of the pews, his pants starting to feel just a little too tight.

It was frustrating, in more ways than one.

It was even worse during the family meeting, during which his eyes would slip closed and his mind would go fuzzy. He tried to tap his toes or fiddle with his hands to keep awake, but that only made him look more bored than sleeping did. Everyone kept shooting him looks, except for Michael, who, thankfully, was too wrapped up in business to notice.

But, in truth, Castiel _was_ bored, more so than usual. He couldn't wait to leave and go back to Dean. He could still feel Dean's hands on his body, his lips against his, his mouth around Castiel’s cock. He darted his tongue across his lips, chasing the phantom touch.

He'd never experienced such desire for anyone. It was overwhelming.

From her place on the couch, he caught Anael staring at him, her brow lifted and mouth quirked in amusement. He shuffled, bringing his gaze to his shoes. He had to stop thinking of Dean. Cold fingers tickled up his spine, whispering to him that everyone in the room could hear his thoughts.

When the meeting ended, Castiel slipped away to the parking lot where his truck was as quickly as he could. His keys were in his hand before he was out of the building, and he managed to shove them into the lock and open the driver's door before a slender hand reached out and slammed it shut again.

"Hold up, Romeo," Anael said. She kept her hand on the glass of the door's window, barring his entrance.

Castiel froze, the air congealing into something solid in his throat. His eyes skimmed the parking lot, making sure no one overheard. Michael was still inside, and Uriel and Raphael were getting into their cars. Raphael had his cell phone pressed to his head.

Still, Anael's words echoed in his ears. How the hell did she know?

"Excuse me?" he asked, playing dumb. His voice sounded cracked even to him. She didn't buy it.

"You heard me." Her eyebrow was arched again as she folded her arms over her chest, satisfied that he wouldn't try to get into the car anymore. Her eyes flickered up and down his person in an assessing way. "I noticed you left the park opening early yesterday. Funny thing is, that Meg girl you brought also disappeared."

Castiel instantly settled. Meg. She was talking about Meg. Thank God.

"And you seemed like you were having a whole lot of trouble staying awake today," she finished, and he could connect the dots well enough to know what she was accusing him of.

He pretended not to. "I was up late studying," he told her, knowing it was best to deny her accusation. Giving in to it too easily would likely make her question her guess.

"Uh-huh," she hummed. "What subject? Chemistry? Anatomy?"

From the other end of the parking lot, Uriel’s car hummed as the engine kicked into life.

"I fulfilled my science course requirements Freshman year."

She whacked his arm quite suddenly with the back of her hand. A smile had bloomed on her pinkish-red lips. "Spill! You totally have a girlfriend! About time, too. I was starting to think you were gay."

Castiel felt all the air get sucked out of him again, making his chest tight. "Yes," he told her haltingly. "Meg is my . . . girlfriend."

Anael let out a short, high-pitched shout. "I knew it! Little Castiel's growing up. Oh, you should bring her to the country club some time. We could have a double lunch date."

Castiel pulled a tight smile, hoping he didn't look too uncomfortable. "I'm sure she would enjoy that." Why the hell did he say that? Perhaps Anael would forget. Perhaps she hadn't meant the invitation and only offered it to be polite.

There was a rush of wheels on the tar as Uriel's car pulled up next to them on the way out of the lot. His passenger side window rolled down smoothly. "I get the feeling I'm missing out on something," he said wryly.

"Castiel has a girlfriend," Anael told him before Castiel could even blink.

Uriel's expression registered shock, which would have been insulting if Castiel wasn't panicking, before he rearranged it into a grin. "Is it that Meg girl?" he teased. "Good work, Castiel. I knew you had it in you."

Castiel opened and closed his mouth a few times, humiliated. He looked around in hopes of finding an escape. "I—."

Raphael's car pulled up behind Uriel's, its horn sounding. Impatiently, the door flung open, and he stood halfway out of the driver’s seat. "There had better be an emergency."

"Castiel has a girlfriend!" Anael and Uriel both called at the same time.

Raphael looked pleased as his cool gaze slid over to Castiel. "Is this true, Castiel?"

Castiel swallowed hard and shuffled. How had this lie already gotten away from him? It was too late to take it back. "Yes," he said quietly, forcing himself to look Raphael in the eyes.

"Excellent," he said, his voice remaining even. "Now, move your car, Uriel." He ducked back inside, and Uriel laughed until the window rolling up muffled the sound.

He honked his horn twice in a salutation as his car whooshed out of the parking lot. Raphael trailed him, the Mercedes bouncing slightly off the flattened curb as it turned onto the street.

Next to him, Anael shot him a wide grin, as if she hadn't just made his life more complicated than it needed to be. "Well, I won't keep you. I'm sure you need to get back to your girlfriend," she laughed.

"Was your only goal in this to embarrass me?" he asked, frustrated.

"Uh, yeah. It's the whole reason I was born." She started away, her heels clacking as she went. Then, she turned around and walked backwards towards her car. "Anyway, don't do anything I wouldn't do!" Castiel wasn't sure what that was. "Oh, and I hope you're using protection!"

Castiel's heart leaped at the words, and he started awkwardly. As quickly as he could, he got into his truck and started the engine. It rumbled into life, but he found himself still. His hands were frozen on ten and two. He stared through the windshield helplessly, barely noticing Anael driving away.

But he let out a gasp when she was gone, realizing he hadn't been breathing. "Damn it," he muttered, and put the car into drive.

///

Dean didn’t go to Bobby’s after he dropped Cas off. Instead, he headed for the good side of town, just before the city gave way to gated communities and country clubs. The luxury apartment high rises were brand new, not like the old brick and mortar buildings of downtown Lawrence. These were all sparkling glass and metallic facades twinkling silver in the summer sun. Dean parked on the street outside one of them and got out of the car.

He squinted up at it, having to shield his eyes with his hand in order to see the top of the building. He shoved his fist into his jeans pocket and pulled out his phone, thumbing at it to pull up the text he’d gotten from Crowley late last night.

 _Heard the Winchester boys were back in town. What do you say you and I have a late night_ _tête-à-tête? xx_

There was a second text pointing Dean to this address, as well as an apartment number.

Dean rolled his eyes as he read it over. Crowley had even put the accents over the letters. In a text message. Christ.

The lobby of the building was air conditioned, with tile floors, plants, and artwork hanging on the walls. A couple of couches and an area rug were off to the side, and Dean wondered if anyone ever actually sat there. He went up to the security desk, not really knowing what to say. Was there some kind of system? Had Crowley given them his name?

“Uh, I’m going up to 9F,” he told the guard behind the desk.

The guard didn’t say anything. He only pushed the sign in sheet on the desk closer to Dean.

No way he was leaving a paper trail at Crowley’s apartment of all places. If he were going to be caught with his pants down at the end of all this, he’d like to spare himself a little bit of dignity.

Dean cleared his throat awkwardly and whispered, “Thanks,” as he scribbled down the name James Hetfield.

He took the mirrored elevator up to the ninth floor and walked around until he found the right apartment. Knocking on the maroon door, he called, “Crowley, it’s me! Open up.” He waited for a full thirty seconds before deciding no one was home. But, before he could step away, the lock clicked and the door opened.

Crowley was in a silk bathrobe and matching black pajama pants. His feet were clad with slippers. Dean raised a brow at him. “Bad time?”

“For me? No. I’ve just finished cooking myself a lovely breakfast and am settling in to read this week’s _New Yorker,”_ Crowley told him in that raspy British accent. “For you? It’s a terrible time. I told you to come last night.”

Was he really about to give him a hard time about this? The timestamp on the text was 2:30 AM. Most normal people were asleep at that time.

“I was busy.”

“And now, I am. Sorry, dear. It was a one time offer.”

Crowley tried to close the door, and Dean’s heart sprang at the prospect of losing out on the additional income, especially after the trip they just took. He needed cash after two months without a steady job. Go figure.

He stopped the door with his hand. “Look, I’m here now. Just let me in and we can talk about this.”

When Crowley stared at him as if weighing his options carefully, Dean softened his expression and said, “Please.” He felt like he wanted to vomit just saying it.

“Oh, don’t grovel. It doesn’t become you. I like you better bossy,” Crowley told him. He turned back into the apartment, leaving the door open. Dean shuddered at the words, skeeved out, but he quickly righted himself and stepped through the doorway.

The apartment was expansive, with high ceilings and hardwood floors. There was a galley kitchen with an island counter to the left of the entrance door and a full dining room with a long oak table. A plate of eggs, toast, and beans was set on a cloth next to a magazine. There was a main room with a high-end living room set and a giant flat screen, and a small hallway leading to the rest of the unit. The outer walls were made completely of glass, overlooking the town outside.

“Sit,” Crowley told him, taking his own seat in front of his breakfast. Dean realized he was still hungry from earlier, but he wasn’t about to ask Crowley for food. If he ate anything, he had a feeling he’d be trapped there forever, _Pan's Labyrinth_ -style.

He took a seat at the table next to Crowley.

“I assume you’re here because you’d like to continue our professional affiliation.”

Dean nodded, trying not to eye the food. “Yeah. Isn’t that why you texted me?”

When Crowley cut into his eggs with the side of his fork, the yoke burst out and ran into the plate. “It is,” he said. “As . . . let’s say, _uncouth_ as I find you, you happen to be good for business. Quite the workhorse mummy and daddy raised.”

Dean didn’t correct him. Instead, he said, “Great! When do I start back up?”

“Not so fast,” Crowley told him, crushing his hopes of getting out of there any time soon. This whole place was way too sterile for him, and the man next to him made him feel way too dirty. “There have been certain developments since you left. I, much to my own personal detriment, have a new partner.”

Dean didn’t really see what this had to do with him. “A partner?”

“Unfortunately.” Crowley chewed on his toast for a second, apparently happy to make Dean wait. He swallowed and continued, “Because of this unwanted disturbance, the jobs will be split between myself and my new colleague, as will the share of the profits. I’m afraid I can only offer you five-percent for your work.”

Already, Dean was running hot. His jaw unhinged and his eyes flashed. “Five-percent? Are you kidding me? That wasn’t the deal, Crowley!”

Setting his fork down on his plate, Crowley leaned back and said, “Please. I’m far less eager than you are to make our relationship into a ménage à trois—.”

“ _Ugh_.”

“But it’s firmly out of my hands. Boss’ orders, you see. I’m assured this new partner of mine is up to snuff, but I haven’t been impressed yet. I suppose we’ll see what the future brings.”

Dean scoffed, shaking his head at the table. “This is such bullshit.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Crowley said, sounding anything but. “Did you assume you could swan off for two months and come back from sabbatical without any repercussions? Hate to break your heart, sweetcheeks, but that’s not how business works. You don’t like it, take it up with the union.”

Whatever Dean wanted to say, he held it between his teeth as hard as he could. This whole situation sucked—it sucked from the get-go. But now? He’d only be bringing in a couple hundred a month. And sure, at least it was better than nothing, but he couldn’t help but wonder if it was worth it. Maybe there was another, more legal job he could get.

Sure. Right. A legal job with the hours of 2 to 4 AM.

He couldn’t fit a third job into his schedule, not between the garage and Harvelle’s.

Crowley dabbed his lips with his cloth napkin. “Of course,” he said, sounding conspiratorial. It got Dean’s attention. “Your dollar amount would be much higher if the jobs you did were—well, _riskier_.”

Yeah, that didn’t sound shady at all.

“Riskier?” Dean echoed. He had a bad feeling about this, but he shoved it to the side.

“It’s one thing to drop off the product.” Crowley’s eyes shot up to his hairline, wrinkling his forehead. “It’s another thing entirely to procure it.”

Dean snorted. He couldn’t be serious. “Oh, yeah, let me just schlep on down to Columbia, come back with a couple kilos up my ass.”

Crowley’s eyes flickered up and down his body like he was wondering just how much Dean actually could fit up his ass, and Dean had to suppress another full body shudder at how gross it was. “Don’t be so dramatic. We source locally.” And then, after a beat, “You have no idea what it is you’re moving, do you?”

Dean didn’t answer that.

“I assure you, it’s hardly Columbia. You wouldn’t even have to leave Lawrence.”

He stood up at that, picking up his plate. “Think about it. Let me know what you decide,” he offered. “In the meantime, it’ll be business as usual. I text you, you come _on time_ like the good little doggie you are. Clear?”

Dean bit down, his jaw jumping under the strain. “Clear,” he said through his teeth.

“Excellent.”

Dean didn’t want to be in the apartment for another second. He left, wondering why the hell he’d gotten himself wrapped up in all this.

///

The Impala was already parked on the side of the road next to the hiking trail when Castiel pulled his truck over to the grass. He cut the engine and paused momentarily, wondering if he should tell Dean that his family currently thought he was in a relationship with Meg.

On the drive over, he’d resolved not to say anything; but now, he realized it might be harder to do that with Dean standing in front of him.

He rattled his head, telling himself he was being stupid. It didn’t matter what his family believed. It had no bearing on his and Dean’s relationship, and was therefore of little consequence. His siblings would likely forget all about Meg in a few days’ time. There was no point in worrying Dean about it, nor was there anything to gain in worrying about it himself.

He decided it was better to keep it to himself.

The truck’s door creaked and slammed when he got out, and he could see the bottom half of Dean’s face in the Impala’s side mirror. Dean’s arm was hanging out of the open window. Castiel approached it and bent over so they could be face-to-face, placing his hand on the warm metal of the roof for balance.

“Hey.” Dean’s smile was bright, and Castiel leaned inside the window to kiss it. Every time he kissed Dean, a thrill went through him that felt like an electric pulse under his skin.

“Ready?”

Dean nodded. “Hell yeah. It’s hotter’n hell.” As he got out of the car, Castiel doubled back to his truck to grab his backpack full of books. When he turned back around, Dean didn’t look too pleased that he’d _actually_ brought his studying material, but Castiel ignored the sour expression.

“How was Bobby?” he asked as they started to walk.

“Yeah, good. You know—same old,” Dean told him distractedly, his eyes on the trees around them. “How was church and stuff?”

“Same old,” Castiel echoed, telling himself not to feel guilty about it.

They continued to converse as they walked side-by-side, their hands occasionally brushing together as they swung at their hips. The exertion made Dean’s cheeks flush as the sun’s heat baked down on them, and Castiel could feel sweat collecting on his lower back, his backpack sitting uncomfortably against it.

But soon, they reached the lake. The grass on its bank was a little taller and much greener than it had been in the beginning of summer, and the water lapped enticingly against the posts of the dock. Its level was a little lower than it had been the last time Castiel saw it, and he supposed that was due to the lack of rain this season.

The white-hot sun was hidden behind the trees, but its rays extended out in a halo to bleach the sky, the colors mixing into a hombre until it reached a more saturated azure. There wasn’t a cloud in sight, and only the contours of passing airplanes sliced through the blue. Birdsong filled the area as butterflies fluttered and dragonflies darted on the heat waves.

“Finally,” Dean breathed, wasting no time pulling off his shirt, jeans, and shoes. He ran for the dock, feet thudding against the wood, and fearlessly dove off the edge with a splash. In the meantime, Castiel dropped his bag and toed off his shoes and socks. He approached the lake, swiped one toe into the water, and found it chilled but refreshing. He realized his mouth was dry from the heat.

Dean broke the surface with a deep breath. His hair was sticking to his forehead, and he shook the access droplets out of it as he treaded water. “C’mon, Cas! Feels good!”

“It’s cold,” Castiel called back.

“For like a second!” Dean swam up to the edge of the dock. Castiel met him there, and plopped down on the unsteady wood. It was scorching through his dress pants. “Come on. You get used to it.”

Castiel rolled up the legs of his pants and stuck his ankles in next to Dean. He peered out across the murky water to the dense canopy of trees on the opposite bank. The water around him warmed up as quickly as Dean claimed. He wanted to sit back for a moment and appreciate the quiet, but Dean seemed intent not to allow that.

“Come on,” he said again, lightly splashing some water against Cas’ leg. Some of it got on the bottom of his pants. “Next one’ll be at your face.”

Turning his eyes heaven-bound, Castiel decided to appease him. He stood up, untucked his shirt from his belt and undid the buttons. Dean began to mimic sultry music as he watched him undress.

“Stop it,” Castiel laughed, suddenly self-conscious.

Dean threw his head back and practically cackled.

Castiel stripped down to his boxers, left his clothes in a heap on the dock, held his breath, and launched himself into the lake next to Dean. There was a rush of water in his ears, and the world was dark as he kept his eyes shut. When the momentum of his sinking slowed, he kicked back up to the surface, and Dean was beside him in a second.

“Good, right? I told you.”

He was right. Castiel would go as far as describing the relief the water brought as delicious.

“Yes, you did.”

Underneath the water, Dean’s hand came to his side and pulled him in close. Their legs knocked together as they kicked to stay afloat.

“Did’ya miss me this morning?” he asked teasingly.

Castiel squinted at him like the question was preposterous. “We were only apart three hours.”

“So . . . yes?”

“Yes,” Castiel deadpanned. “Every moment was sheer agony.”

“Alright, smart ass. You’re full of shit.” Before Castiel knew it, Dean’s hand was on his head, dunking him down under the surface. He held him there for less than a second before letting him go, and Castiel came back up spitting water.

Dean was delighted. Castiel glared.

“Don’t do that again.” His tone was serious, and Dean stopped laughing.

There was the slightest bit of regret in his green eyes, but he said, “Oh, come on, dude. It’s a game.”

“Not a very fun one.”

“ _You’re_ not very fun.” Dean let go of Castiel’s side and put a little bit of space between them.

“Dean,” Castiel said, regaining his attention. He looked like a kicked puppy, and Castiel almost took pity on him. But, as they say, all is fair in love and war. This was war.

He pushed Dean under the water.

“You _dick_!” Dean yelled, sputtering, as Castiel laughed at him. It was too easy sometimes.

He put both hands on Dean’s shoulders and dunked him again; but, this time, Dean’s arms wrapped around his waist beneath the surface. Castiel barely had time to shout, “No! Dean!” before he was tugged under, too.

Some time later, Castiel lay on the grass, stomach down and legs kicked up behind him, as he highlighted passages in his schoolbook. The opened page of his notebook near his elbow was half-filled with bullet points in his neat, blocked scrawl. It was hard to focus, however, and he hadn’t made much leeway. He kept getting distracted by Dean’s skin as he lay lazily on his back on the warm dock, his eyes closed in relaxation, skin glistening as the drops of water dried off of it, and his chin tilted up to the sun. He was turning a little pink, and Castiel thought he might have a few more freckles added to the constellations on his skin by the time the day was over. Every now and again, he would jump back into the lake to cool off. Castiel found himself studying Dean far more closely than he did his textbook.

He took a break from working when Dean got out of the water, claiming that he was pruning. He was dripping wet, and Castiel banished him to the dock while he packed up his books to avoid ruining them. When Dean returned, they laid on the grass together, Dean’s weight pressed on top of him comfortably as he fit himself between Castiel’s legs.

He was playing with Castiel’s hair, brushing it up with his fingers in an attempt to stick it into a Mohawk. His tongue was poking out between his teeth in focus, but at some point his eyes flickered down to latch on to Castiel’s, and Castiel held them. Neither of them broke the gaze except to blink, and Castiel was content to stay like that all day, getting lost in the yellow-flecked universe with its own gravitational pull. He found he couldn’t quite remember the shades of green of the grass beneath them or trees around them. The green of Dean’s eyes in the sunlight was the only shade that mattered.

They’d both lost track of the time hours ago, but it was getting late, and they were both hungry. Castiel offered his apartment, grateful that Balthazar was still away for the summer vacation. The only downside was having to ride in two separate cars, even though it was only a twenty minute journey.

Castiel remembered what he’d said earlier, about such a short time not being enough for him to miss Dean. It was on that drive, with the Impala trailing him in his rearview mirror and Dean a silhouette against the setting sun, that he realized he was, as Dean had put it, full of shit.

They ordered a pizza, Dean insisting on meat lover’s, and curled up on the couch to watch _Jeopardy_ reruns. Dean got all the pop culture and literature questions correct, and even answered a few pertaining to the category of criminal law and procedure. (“Sammy’s always talking to me about that lame crap,” he excused, but his eyes glimmered proudly.) Castiel answered the questions in the category about the Renaissance.

Then, Dean scrolled through Netflix’s film library in search of something else to watch. Castiel never found out what he picked. He fell asleep, exhausted from the sun and the previous night’s lack of sleep, with his feet kicked up on the coffee table next to Dean’s, his arms wrapped around Dean’s torso, and head on his chest. The thumping of Dean’s heart was his lullaby.

Yes, Castiel was definitely full of shit.

///

When his alarm sounded at 7 AM, Dean shot his hand out and slammed it down on his cell phone on Cas’ nightstand with viper-like speed. He turned it off quickly, needing the beeping to stop. It was such a violent way to wake up.

But then he felt Cas shift behind him, heard him grunt unhappily at being conscious. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad way to wake up.

7 AM.

Dean figured he could snooze a little bit before he had to get up. Bobby expected him back at work in a couple of hours, and he knew Cas had a morning class. Maybe, if he skipped a shower and breakfast, they could stay in bed.

He rolled over, fitting himself against Cas’ back and putting his arms around him. Cas grunted again, but grabbed Dean’s arm by the wrist and hugged it close to his chest. Dean breathed him in, remembering the soft sounds he’d made the previous night when Dean had carried him, still half-sleeping, to bed. He’d crawled in next to Cas and, now, he didn’t want either of them to leave.

“Your bed is really comfy,” Dean said, eliciting a tired hum from Cas.

“That’s because it’s not on the floor.”

Dean snorted, unable to argue.

He felt Cas’ chest rise and fall in a loud sigh of finality. “I should get ready for class.”

Dean groaned in protest, digging his forehead into Cas’ shoulder. Cas shifted again with a rustling of bed sheets, and turned around to face him. “I may be able to be persuaded otherwise,” he whispered, lifting his chin so that his mouth was an inch away from Dean’s.

It was already shaping up to be a pretty good day, Dean decided, and he hadn’t even been awake for five minutes.

“Oh, yeah?” Dean asked, leaning in a little closer, a smirk pulling at his cheeks. “You really think I’m gonna come after you with that morning breath you got going on?”

“I think so.”

Dean kissed him, gently at first, slow and lazy and still waking up. He enjoyed it, the easy slide of their lips, the push and pull; the way Cas’ tongue felt against his; the smacking noises it made and the short sounds coming out of Cas’ throat. He put his hands under Cas’ shirt and dragged them up his back, hooking them around his shoulders. One of Cas’ hands was on Dean’s thigh, kneading it gently, as the other still lay stretched out under them.

Cas really did have some pretty stale morning breath. Dean found he really didn’t care, especially when Cas’ hand rounded his hip to squeeze his ass.

He gasped into it, breaking the kiss in the process. Cas pecked at the corners of his lips, his chin, his jaw; his lips tripped down Dean’s neck. He managed to find the spot right under his left ear that drove Dean crazy. Dean’s breath came out skipping and, emboldened by it, Cas continued to work on that spot. He sucked on the skin and scraped his teeth against the sensitive bruise forming there. He blew hot air on the sleek area.

Dean’s grip on his shoulders tightened as he scrambled for purchase against the wave of pleasure. His hips began to press against Cas’ thigh, seeking out friction. He heard himself say Cas’ name.

Cas pressed Dean onto his back and straddled him, and sat up much to Dean’s dismay. But it was worth it, because he pulled his shirt over his head and discarded it to floor. Still under him, Dean picked himself up by the elbows and took his shirt off, too. Cas dipped down and laid kisses onto his freckled shoulders, and Dean rubbed his hands up and down Cas’ chest, feeling the smooth lines and planes of his body.

When Cas took him by the cheeks and kissed his lips again, it was like he was claiming Dean as his own. And Dean almost laughed, because ain’t that just capitalism? Maybe Cas could run a million dollar company, after all, if the side of him that came out when he kissed was any indication.

Dean wrapped his arms tightly around him and brought them both crashing back onto the bed.

Cas spread out on top of him, making it easier for them to pull down their boxers as their tongues continued to push and pull against each other like a tide. Once they were off, Cas grabbed at Dean’s leg again and wrapped it over him, fitting them closer together. Dean felt sparks drag through his half-hard groin as Cas moved against him. Unaided, he put his other leg around Cas’ waist, pulling him in closer.

He felt Cas sink lower, the head of his dick brushing against Dean’s entrance, and Dean had to break away from his mouth to fight for air. Cas dropped his head against Dean’s chest, giving some very uncharacteristically uncomposed sounds. It was the same as a couple nights ago when Dean was sucking him off. Not long ago, he didn’t think he would ever see Cas so undone, but now he wanted to see it every chance he could. He wanted to be the one to make him that way, the only one to ever do it.

And he couldn’t help but think about what sounds Cas would make if he fucked Dean. He wanted to find out, and he had an overpowering urge to find out right then and there.

“You don’t—,” Dean said, having to swallow and try again. “Do you have anything?”

Cas shook his head, and sounded pained when he said, “Dean.”

“Shh. Okay.” Dean put his hand in Cas’ hair and held him against his chest. “Always next time. If—if you want.” He sounded brighter than he really was, because, damn, nothing would feel better right now than getting dicked down into the mattress by his hot new boyfriend.

Cas’ lips pressed into his shoulder. “I want _you_ ,” he practically growled. Dean had to bite down hard on his lower lip to stop himself from shouting so loud he’d wake up the neighbors.

He rolled them over to the other side of the bed, hearing Cas let out a soft humph as he landed underneath Dean. He shoved their hips together, almost painfully hard now as he dragged himself against Cas. Cas grabbed him by the back of the neck and brought him back up into a messy kiss. As they rocked against each other, Dean wrapped one hand around Cas’ hipbone, riding out the motions. He broke away from Cas’ lips and kissed the cleft of his chin.

He wanted to tell Cas to turn over, so he could kiss down his spine and get at his ass, but then there was a sudden loud knocking at the front door. Cas drew in a sharp breath and turned his head towards the sound. He stopped moving, and Dean couldn’t have that. He brought his hand up to Cas’ cheek and tried to turn his face back towards him.

“Ignore it,” he said when Cas wasn’t cooperating. “They’ll go away.”

As if determined to prove him wrong, whoever it was knocked again. Dean wanted to personally tell them to fuck off because he _trying_ to have sex here, and they weren’t doing him any favors by interrupting.

Beneath him, he could feel Cas softening, and Dean was losing some of his heat, too, under the distraction. He tried desperately to get it back, to not lose the moment. He pressed kisses to the bolt of Cas’ jaw.

“Castiel? I know you’re home! Open up!” a female voice, muffled but still sharp, came through from the hallway. She knocked again.

“Dean,” Cas said, putting his hands on Dean’s shoulders and shoving him away. “It’s my sister.” He started wriggling out from under Dean, and Dean sighed explosively and rolled onto his side. Cas got out of bed, frantically searching for his clothes and jumping into them.

Dean sat up and rubbed at his eye, the blankets pooling in his lap. “You sure she won’t just leave if we pretend we’re not here?” he asked, frustrated, even though he knew the moment was gone. His body wasn’t pulsing anymore, but he could still feel the discomfort in his abdomen from all the built up pressure.

Cas shot him a side-eye. “Trust me, she won’t.” Once presentable, he went to the bedroom door and opened it just wide enough to slip through. He said, “Stay here,” and then he was gone, closing the door behind him.

Dean grunted and fell back on the bed with a soft thud.

///

Castiel tried desperately to pat down his hair. He pulled at his shirt in attempt to look like he hadn’t just been having sex in the next room. His heart was rushing in his ears, hammering in his chest as if he’d just run a marathon, but not for the same reasons it had been just moments ago.

Anael was here. And Dean was here—naked in his bed. He sent out a pleading prayer that Dean would stay in his room, and that Anael wouldn’t put two and two together. Hopefully, she wouldn’t stay long. He didn’t even know why she was there in the first place. He could probably count on one hand how many times any of his siblings have visited him at his apartment. He wouldn’t even need every finger.

Trying to control himself, he unlocked the door and ripped it open. Her expression changed quickly, hair bouncing around her as she jerked her head back in surprise at how abruptly he’d opened the door. She eyed him up and down skeptically, and he tried not to blush. He felt like she could read his secret on his face.

“Anael,” he said, hoping his voice sounded normal. To his own ears, it was too rough and panicked. “What do you want?”

“Morning to you, too, Castiel,” she said, and breezed right past him into the apartment without even asking permission first. He felt his heart seize up, irrationally thinking she was headed for the bedroom. Thankfully, she spun around on her heels next to the breakfast table. He closed the door.

“I have a proposition for you,” she said, folding her arms across her chest and raising one brow at him.

“A proposition?” Why couldn’t she do this over the phone?

“Well, more like an invitation,” she corrected.

Castiel sighed, not in the mood for this. He was already frustrated enough, and he was still clinging on to the fool’s hope that he could get rid of her soon and finish what he and Dean had started before he had to go to class.

“What is it, Anael?”

“I’m planning a little family brunch at the club this weekend,” she told him, brushing a stray piece of red hair out of her face. “Ever since I found out about you and your girlfriend, I realized we have literally no idea what’s going on in each other’s lives.”

Castiel didn’t see what was so wrong with that. They weren’t exactly close on a personal level, and they all seemed content to keep it that way.

“So—brunch, this Sunday after the meeting. All of us, plus our significant others.” Castiel stomach did a somersault at that. “You should invite Meg.”

Damn it. He really hoped his siblings would have forgotten about Meg.

“I can’t,” he said in a kneejerk reaction, before realizing he’d have to provide an excuse. “She . . .” he fished, and decided to keep it vague. “She’s busy this Sunday.”

Anael tapped her finger impatiently against the inside of her elbow. “So, tell her to free up her schedule! You know how booked everyone is, especially once summer’s over. We’re probably not gonna get this opportunity for another year.”

He stared at her, trying to figure out how to say no in a way she’d accept.

She stared back warningly. “Don’t make me find her address and give her a house call, too.”

He nearly jumped at that. It would be very bad if Anael spoke to Meg under the assumption that she was his girlfriend. Of course, he didn’t know how he would hide that fact during an entire sit down meal with his family, but that issue wasn’t immediate. He needed to take care of the more pressing matter.

“Don’t,” he said, reacting.

“Why?” She paused, looking him up and down again, and then her eyes lit up. He knew what she was thinking before she even voiced it. “Oh my God, is she here right now?”

“Anael—.”

“She _is_ , isn’t she? Oh my God! Castiel! Why didn’t you say anything?” She was grinning slyly now, her expression full of pride for him.

He decided it was best to neither confirm nor deny her assumption, but to continue to let her assume it. “I’ll invite her.”

“Good,” Anael responded as if she always knew she would get her way. She walked past him again, towards the door. “I’ll let you get back to her, then.” Once at the door, she swiveled around and grabbed the knob. “Have fun,” she sang, and then closed the door behind her.

Castiel let out a relieved breath, and then looked up at the ceiling in a silent prayer. This Sunday was not going to be easy. He hoped Meg truly was too busy to attend. Knowing his luck, it was unlikely.

Once certain that Anael was gone, he went back to the bedroom, where Dean was already dressed and pulling on his boots. Castiel’s heart sank at the sight, even though he knew it was too late to go back to bed. They both had responsibilities they had to attend.

“What was that about?” Dean asked over his shoulder as he laced up his shoes.

“Nothing,” Castiel told him. “She wanted to invite me to brunch on Sunday.” He omitted the part about Meg. They didn’t have enough time for that conversation at present.

Dean stood up. “That’s why I had to hide out in here?” he asked, and Castiel wanted to tell him that he wasn’t hiding, but it would sound like a lie. “You embarrassed of me already?” Dean played it off like a joke, but Castiel saw the very sincere hints of rejection in his eyes.

“Of course not,” Castiel told him, dejected. He looked away, not wanting Dean to see him flush with shame. “You know my family is religious.”

“Yeah, I know,” Dean said. “Asshole religious.”

The part of Castiel who attended mass every Sunday, who wore a uniform suit and tie to Catholic elementary school as a child, who once took everything his father, other siblings, and priests preached at face value, was affronted by the comment. He wanted to accuse Dean of not telling his father about his sexual orientation for similar reasons.

The rest of him knew that Dean was right.

“Yes,” he said simply, and turned his attention back to Dean. Some shared understanding sat heavily between them. The knowledge that this relationship wouldn’t last, because it couldn’t, because their families wouldn’t allow it. They couldn’t hide forever.

Dean let out a breath, blinking away. “How’re we gonna play this, Cas?” he asked, as if Castiel held any kind of answer.

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. But he didn’t want it to matter. He wanted to tell Dean that, despite it all, they would be together. That Castiel wanted to spend the rest of his life with him. “But I meant what I said, Dean. I do love you.”

It was the first admission that wasn’t between the sheets, and Castiel said it like it would rid them of all their problems. Like it was enough.

Some of the tension left Dean’s shoulders, and he nodded, quirking a small smile. “Yeah,” he said thoughtfully, and then, “Alright, well. I better get to work. I’ll see you later?”

Castiel nodded, not feeling any better for it. He knew this would occupy his mind for the rest of the day. Still, he pushed a frail smile. “Hopefully, we can continue what we started this morning.”

“Now you’re talkin’,” Dean told him, but the brightness in his tone didn’t reach his eyes. He stepped forward and pressed a quick, chaste kiss to Castiel’s lips. It was casual, and the first kiss they shared that wasn’t a means to an end. Castiel thought that was significant, just how insignificant it was, and it might just be his favorite kiss so far.

“See you later, Cas.”

“Bye.”

Dean left the bedroom, then. A few seconds later, Castiel heard the front door open and close. He knew he should have gotten ready for class then, but all his energy was suddenly drained away. He sat down on the edge of his bed where Dean had lain, and then fell sideways onto the mattress. He buried his nose into Dean’s pillow, chasing after his scent on Castiel’s sheets.

He promised himself he wouldn’t let it fade away.


	13. Chapter 13

Dean really liked waking up to Cas in his bed. Lucky for him, that was starting to become most mornings. And, if he was _really_ lucky, it would take them a pretty long time to get out of bed.

He was starting to become really lucky most mornings.

Like this one.

Cas was straddling him, pinning Dean’s wrists down on the mattress on either side of his head, as he kissed him deeply. Whenever he leaned up, Dean chased his lips, and groaned in protest when he couldn’t catch them. Cas grinned wickedly every time, but he always came back. And now, his hips had started to move slowly back and forth against Dean, creating teasing friction in all the right places through their pajama bottoms.

When Cas moved away from his lips and starting kissing along his jaw, Dean felt his breath pick up with the heat in his stomach dropping lower and lower. Cas was nipping at Dean’s Adam’s apple, and all Dean wanted to do was rake his fingers down Cas’ back. He tried to lift his wrists, but Cas only doubled his strength. Cas moved his hands up to thread their fingers together.

“You’re killin’ me, babe,” Dean managed to say through his parched throat.

Cas hummed against his neck. “Not yet,” he promised, and the prospect alone was enough to make Dean’s toes curl. It wasn’t really his fault that, whenever he looked at Cas, _Only the Good Die Young_ started playing on a loop in his head.

Cas let go of his hands and sat up straight on top of him. He lifted his shirt off his head and tossed it away, and Dean wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch or not. He _really_ wanted to. But before he could do anything, Cas leaned down again and shucked Dean’s t-shirt up to his chest. He sucked at the skin on Dean’s stomach and up to his nipples. Dean had his fingers in Cas’ hair, tugging and pulling and just holding on for dear life.

“Cas,” he whined. “I’m gonna come without you if you don’t let me do something.”

Cas glanced up at him, one eyebrow raised. “Maybe that’s what I want you to do.”

Dean bit at his bottom lip. He sighed, “I’ve created a monster. A sex monster. All of my own design.”

With a laugh, Cas came back up to his mouth. He didn’t kiss him, but hovered right above his mouth, so that Dean could feel his words forming. “You don’t seem to be complaining.”

“Fuck no.” Dean grabbed him by the back of the neck and brought him down completely, into a bruising kiss.

Cas straightened out to lay on top of him, fitting himself between Dean’s legs. Dean bent his knees up to give him better access, and his breath tripped into Cas’ mouth when Cas pressed his hips down onto him. Dean grinded up against him, his hands roughing down Cas’ back to grope his ass. It made a high-pitched whine escape Cas’ throat, and his body shuddered against Dean’s.

He reached behind him and blindly grabbed one of Dean’s wrists to guide him to the hem of his sweatpants. “Dean. Take them off.”

Dean didn’t have to be told twice.

Meanwhile, Cas’ other hand was at the elastic of Dean’s boxers, pulling them down. Dean had to kick them off the rest of the way, losing them to the twisting bed sheets.

Cas lifted himself up fractionally to rummage through the drawer of Dean’s nightstand, and Dean used that time to pull his shirt over his head. Cas came back with the bottle of KY, and flicked the cap back. “Here,” he said, voice sharp and deep, and squeezed some into Dean’s palm before taking some himself.

Dean warmed the gel, and reached between them to stroke Cas’ erection. Cas’ hand was on him soon enough, making Dean gasp and rut as the world narrowed down to the fist working him in slow, even pumps.

Dean tossed his head back, trying to breathe, and Cas buried his nose into the crook of his neck. His lips and teeth scraped against Dean’s collarbone. His other hand was gripping Dean’s thigh like a lifeline.

He heard himself curse under his breath, mixed with Cas’ name, and whatever ridiculous sentiments he couldn’t hold in at the moment. He wasn’t really sure what he was saying. It was something about Cas’ “long fuckin’ fingers.” Whatever it was, it made Cas let out a gulp of laughter.

He could feel his climax building slow, starting in his toes and working its way up. Cas got there first. His movements became more erratic, and his grip on Dean’s leg tensed. He pushed his face into Dean’s chest and let out muffled noises as he spilled out.

As it was happening, Dean bit down on his bottom lip and clutched at his pillowcase. The coconut scent of Cas’ shampoo carried him through his orgasm, pulsing and ebbing as he worked his hips listlessly, trying to prolong it.

His body eased when it ended, and he felt Cas’ muscles slacken against him. After a few moments, Cas lifted his head off Dean’s chest, leaving a wet mark in his wake where his lips had been.

Dean let his breath catch back up to him, straining his neck a little as he lifted it up to knock his forehead gently against Cas’. Idly, Cas’ fingers stroked Dean’s sides, tickling him only a little bit.

“You hungry?” Dean asked after a minute.

Cas smiled, and nodded against him. Dean pecked a quick kiss to his lips and said, “Be right back.” Cas rolled off of him, and he sat up to search for his boxers in the tangle of blankets. After he slipped back into them, he wiped himself off. He tossed the package to Cas and left the room, bee-lining to the kitchen.

The forced air was against his bare torso, as Cas had bought them a window unit air conditioner for their living room. Dean had tried to refuse it, but apparently, “this isn’t for you, Dean. It’s for me. I’m not sleeping in the heat,” and really, who was Dean to argue with that? Outside was misty, the rain was coming down in sheets. The wind battered against the windows, rattling the frames. It was a good day to stay in bed, and maybe Dean could convince Cas to skip his final exam that day.

He went to the freezer and popped a few Eggos into the toaster from the box. While they cooked, he raided the pantry for syrup and peanut butter, a box of Frosted Flakes, and two bowls and spoons. When the waffles sprung out of the toaster, he pinched them at the top and quickly moved them to a plate with a soft “ouch” at the burn it gave him. He grabbed the milk from the fridge before balancing everything in his arms and scurrying back to the bedroom.

When he past his door, he briefly wondered if Sam was awake, but he couldn’t hear anything from inside the room, so he figured he and Cas still had a couple hours to themselves.

Cas scoffed when he saw all the food in Dean’s arms, so much that Dean had to close the door with his foot. “Did you bring the entire kitchen?”

Dean placed the items on the bed over the blankets, and then dove back under next to Cas. It was too cold to be out of them for very long. “It’s a feast,” he said. “Nothing’s too good for my baby.”

“Or your stomach,” Cas teased, reaching for the cereal and turning it over into a bowl. “And it wouldn’t kill you to have some fruit with your breakfast.”

“It might. You heard about how much sugar’s in fruit? It’d be irresponsible to add all that on top of what’s already in my cereal.”

Cas poured milk into the bowl, drowning his flakes. “Your logic is impeccable.”

Dean reached for the plate of waffles and spread some peanut butter on one. He squirted maple syrup on top of it next. Cas watched his progress with skepticism.

“How did you make waffles?” he asked. “You weren’t gone long.”

“I didn’t,” Dean said, cutting off a bite. “They’re Eggos.”

The lines between Cas’ eyebrows deepened. “They’re _what_?”

Dean probably should have been used to the fact that his boyfriend was from Mars or Jupiter or whatever by now. “Yeah, you make them in the toaster.”

Cas was staring at him like he couldn’t believe such a thing was an option. “What?”

Dean laughed around a bite and cut off another one for Cas. He forked it and brought it to Cas’ mouth. “Yeah, try it.”

Tentatively, Cas bit down around the fork, and Dean waited for his reaction. He chewed for a second, processing the flavor to decide his verdict. He looked like he enjoyed it. “Good, right?”

Cas hummed, still chewing. “Yes,” he said, deadpan, after he swallowed. “It’s better than sex.”

“Hey!”

“Not with you.”

“Who else you been having sex with?”

“I wouldn’t want you to get jealous,” Cas said before eating a spoonful of cereal.

He had such a fucked up sense of humor, but Dean constantly found himself holding back a laugh whenever he said anything that any normal human being would perceive as totally serious.

“Jealous?” he scoffed. “Yeah, right! They can have you. You’re too high maintenance.”

Cas leaned in and pecked a kiss to Dean’s mouth. Dean could taste the sugar from the cereal on his lips after he pulled away.

They were quiet for a few minutes, simply waking up and eating. Dean’s back was against the wall and his legs spread to the other side of the bed behind Cas’ back, and Cas was still facing forward on the mattress, shoulders hunched and posture terrible. He noticed that Cas was munching on his food in the way he did when he was thinking about something.

“What?” Dean asked, wondering what the hell he was in for this time.

Cas shook his head, swallowed the lump of food in his mouth. He worked his jaw a little from one side to the other, which meant he was _really_ contemplating something now. “I didn’t say anything.”

“Yeah, you’re _thinking_ something.”

“No, I’m not.”

Dean rolled his eyes, but decided to drop it. Cas would tell him eventually.

“Dean?”

That didn’t take long.

“Yeah?”

“I think . . .” Cas looked down at his bowl. It was mostly just the last dregs of sugary milk now. He set his spoon down inside with a light clink. “I think we should have sex.”

Dean pulled a face. He didn’t really understand why it took so long for Cas to get that out there. “Again?” he asked. “I mean, not that I’m complaining, Cas, but can I digest my breakfast first?”

Cas let out a frustrated noise. “No, not—.” He shook his head. His voice was low and still rough with sleep. “I meant . . . _sex_ , sex.”

Dean was still confused, and then it dawned on him. “Oh.”

“If that’s what you want.” There was a question there, one that Cas seemed too coy to ask. Dean didn’t think he’d ever seen him that timid.

But, really, it wasn’t a question at all. Dean would have fucked from day one. He was just waiting for Cas to be ready.

With Cas’ not facing him, Dean allowed himself to grin wildly, pulse beating excitedly at the prospect alone. He bit it down before saying, “Yeah. Yeah—hell. Definitely. You sure?”

Slowly, Cas looked at him over his shoulder. His eyes traveled up and down Dean’s front, and he nodded. “Yes.” And then, “I don’t mean right this second. But . . . soon.”

“Soon works,” Dean told him. “I’ll mark it down on my calendar.”

Cas gave a breath of laughter, seeming relieved—like Dean would ever say no to that—and turned back to his food. “You’re absurd.”

Dean felt giddy from the corners of his lips to the tips of his fingers and toes.

“Yeah, and you wanna have sex with me.”

He couldn’t see his face, but he was pretty sure Cas was smiling.

///

That Sunday, after the meeting at the office, Castiel followed his siblings to the country club. Meg had texted him a few minutes ago to tell him she was on her way, and that her brother would drop her off. He still couldn’t believe that she’d agreed to join them for brunch. Granted, he hadn’t exactly told her the truth. He’d said that his siblings wanted to thank her for helping them with the park’s opening, even though all she’d really done was stand on stage. But she seemed to accept that excuse, and thus accepted the invitation.

Perhaps he should have told her the truth. Maybe then, she wouldn’t have wanted to come.

The country club was on the north side of town, set apart by miles of greenery and a golf course. There was a swimming pool, where there were a few families with young children enjoying the August weather, and a sauna room to one side of the main building. A few suites for boarding, lounging, and business meetings occupied the building, too, as did the main dining room.

Castiel followed the caravan of his siblings’ vehicles up the short private road and onto the roundabout driveway, where he left his truck for the valet to park. Alfie was on duty that day, the same high-school-aged boy who usually helped at the Novaks’ Christmas parties, and Castiel said a quick hello before following his family inside.

They were seated at a long table towards the back of the room, near the bay window that overlooked the golf course. As they waited for the rest of their party, Castiel idly squinted at the white blurs of the golf carts zipping around the paths in the distance. He heard laughter as two people dressed in tennis clothes, rackets swinging at their sides, traversed down the walkway on their way to the courts. There were a few other groups in the dining room, taking advantage of Sunday brunch.

It didn’t take long for their guests to arrive. Anael’s boyfriend-slash-producer, Zeke, got there first, giving her a kiss on the cheek before shaking everyone else’s hand. Next came the woman Uriel had been seeing, Duma. She was an associate at the top law firm under the Evangelist umbrella, quickly on her way to becoming partner. She had been the one to pass along Sam’s resume to her bosses, getting him his internship, so Castiel was grateful for her, but he really didn’t know her apart from that.

Raphael had been seeing someone, too, but Castiel had never met her. Michael and Uriel had, but they never really spoke of her, and Castiel didn’t ask. It seemed she was away on business most of the time, from what little he could gather.

As for Michael, he never stayed with the same woman long. He usually had someone different hanging off his arm at every event, but he hadn’t brought anyone that day.

When Meg arrived, Castiel stood up to greet her, and introduced her to his family. She gave a little half-wave to each of them, and he could feel all their eyes on them. It seemed like they were scrutinizing his every move, which may have been preposterous but it compelled him to take Zeke’s example and awkwardly give Meg a kiss on the cheek before they sat down. It was quick, and she reacted by jerking away in surprise, and he felt his entire face heat up with embarrassment as he hoped no one saw the exchange.

As soon as the server—Rachel, Castiel thought her name was—came around to collect their drink orders, Castiel felt his phone buzz with a text that could only be from Dean, probably asking if he could come over to hang out. Castiel deemed it best to ignore him at present.

But he wished Dean were there. As if dining with his family wasn’t awkward enough, he could barely look at Meg. He felt awful, and every one of his nerve endings was frayed with worry that she might figure out why she was really there. He wanted Dean to be next to him instead. He wanted to hold his hand under the table, to feel its comforting weight and warmth.

Anael dominated most of the conversation, talking about the upcoming guests she had slated for her show, until Rachel came back with their drinks and took their food orders. She had barely been gone five minutes when someone else approached, his voice drifting towards them like spider silk woven onto a tree branch before he even reached the table.

“Well, well, if it isn’t the Family Novak,” Crowley said smoothly, making each of them look up. He’d sidled his way up to the table, standing between Michael and Raphael, smiling at the two of them in a way that seemed more predatory than friendly. Castiel canted his head to the side. He’d never seen Crowley at the club before.

“Excuse me, I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure,” Michael said, sitting up a little in his seat. He looked at Raphael as if to confirm, but Castiel couldn’t see Raphael’s expression.

“Fergus MacLeod. Call me Crowley,” he said, offering his hand for Michael to take. “I work with Azazel Masters.”

Castiel looked sidelong at Meg, who appeared completely unimpressed as Crowley gestured towards her and said, “Whose lovely daughter, I see, is dining with you this fine afternoon. The Masters certainly do have friends in high places. Speaking of, I heard a rumor that you may run for state senate. Any truth to it?”

“Oh,” Michael said with a faux-bashful wave of his hand, “I never know how these rumors get spread.”

“Well, you really should consider it.”

“Of course,” Michael said politely. “Thank you for introducing yourself, Mr. MacLeod.”

“Actually,” Crowley said, knowing he was about to be dismissed. “I was hoping you and I might have a little chat.”

Michael’s face went a little taut, but he didn’t let his annoyance show. “I’d be happy to. Please, call my office and have my assistant set something up.” It was doublespeak for, _that’s never going to happen_.

“Well—,” Crowley began.

Raphael interrupted by standing up. “Perhaps I should handle this,” he said, placing one hand on Crowley’s shoulder and extending his other arm towards the dining room’s entrance, indicating that he would follow Crowley out.

Crowley was much squatter than Raphael, who towered over him, so he had to look up to meet his eyes. He didn’t seem very happy about the brush off, but he nodded, bid them all goodbye, and started walking. Michael and Raphael shared another look before Raphael followed him out to the lobby.

Castiel glanced at Meg, and leaned in slightly. “Wasn’t that—?” he started, remembering the night Crowley had come over her house to speak with her father. Crowley hadn’t struck him as a pharmacist then, and he got the same feeling now. Whoever he was, there seemed to be some friction between him and Meg.

Meg rolled her eyes. “Yeah, that’s him,” she whispered. “Slimeball.” She shot him a disarming smile, but it didn’t seem like she was going to elaborate on her dislike for Crowley, so Castiel returned the expression with a stiff smile of his own and leaned away.

He noticed Michael eyeing them, and quickly looked down at his place setting.

Their food came out shortly thereafter, and Castiel felt a little badly when he realized that smaller parties who had already been seated when they arrived hadn’t gotten their meals yet. That usually happened on the rare occasion Castiel went anywhere with his siblings, especially the club. They tended to get such treatment, and none of them ever seemed to notice, so he kept it to himself. His siblings were busy people. Most of his own schedule was occupied, as well. The other diners would be served sooner or later, he was sure, so there was no harm in it.

“Before we eat,” Michael said as his plate was set in front of him. At once, everyone at the table glanced towards him. “I think something of a toast is in order. Castiel—.”

Castiel pulled his brows together, wondering what the hell he’d done.

Michael raised his champagne flute in the air, and Anael followed with her mimosa. The others did the same, and Castiel realized he hadn’t ordered anything alcoholic. Wasn’t it bad luck to toast with water? He held it up anyway.

“Congratulations on beginning your senior year of college in a few week’s time,” Michael said. “You’ve been an exemplary student, and I’m sure you’ll excel just as well when you join our ranks at Evangelist after graduation.”

Meg nudged him a little, and Castiel felt a little bashful. Michael rarely complimented him, and he almost never sounded _proud_. It was kind of nice, actually, to be the subject of such praise—even if the toast left a pang in his chest at the thought of joining the company when he was finished with school. He always knew that would be his future, but the reality of it was quickly approaching. It felt strange.

He put a lid on those emotions, and tried to focus on the good. There was no use in worrying about a future he couldn’t change. “Thank you,” he said softly, and everyone took a sip of their drinks.

As they began to dig into their food, Michael spoke again. “So, Meg,” he began, adjusting his cloth napkin on his lap. He was smiling pleasantly at her, even though his smile so rarely reached his eyes. Castiel was the exact opposite. Dean had once told him that his smile was _only_ in his eyes. No one else had ever paid enough attention to him to notice something like that.

“You’re Azazel’s daughter?” Michael went on.

“Uh, yeah,” she said, seeming a little thrown at being addressed directly by him. She glanced quickly at Castiel for help, but he had none to give. He let her fend for herself, and almost hoped she might slip up enough that his siblings wouldn’t want him to bring her around anymore. That would be a huge relief, and it would certainly make his life less complicated. “Yeah, that’s my dad.”

“He’s very good at what he does. Give him my best,” Michael said. “Do you plan on following in his footsteps in your own career?”

Damn it. It was starting. Michael was gauging whether or not Meg was a suitable match for the Novaks. Was Castiel a bad person for hoping his verdict came back negative?

“Yeah, tell us about yourself!” Anael cut in excitedly from across the table. Her and Zeke’s chairs were close together, their shoulders brushing slightly. Castiel wondered if he should pull his seat closer to Meg for the sake of optics.

“Uh,” Meg said. Clearly, she hadn’t been expecting this, but she held her own. “Well, I’m not really into pharmaceuticals like my dad, so I’m not really sure if you’ll catch me working at the hospital any time soon. That’s kind of my brother’s gig. I’m majoring in communications.”

“A very versatile field of study,” Michael approved. “Very practical.”

“Oh!” Anael said, throwing her hands up like she’d just had an epiphany. She placed one on Zeke’s shoulder. “You should talk to Zeke about a job at the studio. Any interest in broadcast TV?”

“Or perhaps a more rewarding career?” Uriel cut in, his tone licked with humor.

Anael rolled her eyes. “Please. She doesn’t wanna sit behind a desk in a stuffy office forever. That’s so boring.”

Castiel wanted to slink down into his chair until he was hidden from view under the table. They hadn’t even known Meg for an hour and, already, they were trying to find her a career path.

“I’d be happy to help, if you’re interested,” Zeke told her, his voice slow and earnest.

“Looks like Castiel is good at finding his friends jobs,” Duma said in her raspy voice, her fork poised over her eggs benedict. “Either that or he keeps pretty impressive company.”

Castiel froze, and then his heart started pounding. He looked at Michael, hoping that hadn’t caught his attention. It had.

“Yes, that’s right,” Uriel added like he’d just remembered. “There was that boy who interns at your firm.”

“Who’s this?” Michael asked in a casual tone, but he was anything but.

Castiel wondered if he should spill his water to create a distraction. He tried a less moist route. “A friend from school.”

“His name’s Sam Winchester,” Duma said to Michael.

Damn it. _Damn it_.

Castiel gritted his teeth.

“The partners seem very pleased with his work. I think we’re going to offer him a low level job helping out around the office,” Duma went on.

Michael was staring at Castiel, his eyes void of all expression. “Winchester,” he said, like he was committing the name to memory. “I’ll have to remember that name.”

Castiel looked down at his food, his non-existent appetite turning into nausea. He’d been so worried about Meg finding out that his family thought they were dating, but he should have been focusing on protecting the Winchesters. He hadn’t wanted Michael to know he was still in contact with them, especially after the Christmas party.

He hated having to be concerned about such things. Granted, he’d never been in a real relationship before, so he didn’t know how they were supposed to feel; but he was fairly certain it wasn’t like this. He didn’t understand why love so often felt like a revolution.

Thankfully, before anyone could comment any further, Raphael returned. Castiel had kind of forgotten he’d been missing. He sat down on the edge of his chair, not seeming like he was staying long. He leaned in and whispered something into Michael’s ear, and Michael’s expression changed minutely into something unreadable.

When Raphael leaned back, Michael plastered on another grin and said, “Well, it seems I’m needed back at the office.” He stood up, picking up his napkin from his lap in the process and placing it next to his hardly touched plate. He buttoned up the jacket of his three-piece suit.

Castiel looked up abruptly, relief settling inside of him.

Raphael stood up, too.

“This was pleasant,” Michael told them, mostly directing it at Anael. “Thank you for arranging it, Anael. I’ll be sure to pay the bill up front before I leave. Raphael, with me.”

They both left the table, and Castiel was glad to see them go. The tension was cut nearly in half the moment they were out of sight. The rest of the brunch was spent talking about various things, but Castiel barely participated. His thoughts were otherwise occupied, mostly with Dean.

He really hoped Michael wouldn’t read too much into Sam’s employment. It didn’t have to mean anything; and it certainly didn’t have to mean that Castiel was sleeping with Dean. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that, in one way or another, there would be consequences.

When the meal was over, they all made their way back outside to the valet stand. Their cars arrived, and they said their goodbyes. Anael gave Meg a big hug, and said, “We need to do this again sometime. It was fun!”

“Super fun!” Meg exclaimed in a mocking tone, and it was almost enough to make Castiel laugh because Anael had no idea she was being teased. He was in a somewhat better mood now that Michael’s eyes were off of him. Plus, he’d managed to get through the meal without anyone mentioning Meg as his girlfriend, so he supposed he was in the clear.

Or, at least, he had been.

“We were all just so happy when we found out Castiel got himself a girlfriend,” Anael went on, and Castiel found himself freezing again. He wondered how many times a person’s heart could stop momentarily in the span of an hour before they had to be rushed to the hospital and proclaimed legally dead.

Meg cocked her eyebrow, and flashed Castiel a look that made him want to evaporate into thin air. She recovered quickly enough, however, and he would never know how to repay her for saying, “Yeah, I bet you’re real proud. They grow up so quick, don’t they?”

Anael laughed at that. “Sure do!”

Meg lifted her hand and grabbed Castiel’s bicep, her hold a lot tighter and more painful than it looked. “Drive me home, _honey_?”

He nodded, and forced himself to meet her eyes. They all said one last goodbye before getting into their cars and driving away.

Meg’s house wasn’t too far from the club. It was only a few miles, but it might as well have been the expanse of an ocean. Castiel was dreading it.

He was on the edge of his seat the entire time, gripping the wheel in anticipation of her yelling. He didn’t want to swerve off the road when that happened; but, then again, the crash might kill him, and that seemed like a significantly practical alternative.

They drove for a full ten minutes in awkward silence before Meg finally spoke.

“So, girlfriend, huh?”

Castiel’s hands tightened even more around the wheel. He glanced nervously at her out of the corners of his eyes, and found her smirking at him from the passenger seat. He wondered if it was a good thing that she was treating this as somehow humorous.

He didn’t find it very funny, though.

“Wish you’d warn a girl before deciding we’re back on,” she continued to drawl, her head rolling against the headrest to look at him. “What gives, Castiel? Why so hot and cold all of a sudden? You’re gonna give me whiplash.”

He pressed his lips together apologetically, and lowered his shoulders in a sigh. “I’m sorry,” he told her sincerely. He hadn’t meant for her to get wrapped up in his lie, and he certainly didn’t mean to play games with her. “I never wanted this. But—Anael—it—.” He wasn’t quite sure how to explain himself. “It just happened.”

She popped a brow, humming. “And what, you tell your whole family we’re an item and you just hoped it wouldn’t come up in conversation over brunch?”

He looked down briefly, ashamed, before returning his eyes to the road. “I _was_ hoping for that, actually,” he admitted.

Meg let out a loud breath, dropping all pretense of humor. “Can you just tell me what your deal is?”

“There’s no . . . _deal_ ,” he snipped, even though he knew he had no right to be frustrated. At least, not with her. His family was a different story. “It’s Dean. They’d never accept him. Or our relationship.”

Michael already seemed to have some kind of dislike towards the Winchesters, thinking them beneath the Novaks. He would never allow Castiel to continue seeing Dean if he knew, for more than one reason.

“Uh, yeah, I barely know him and I don’t even approve of him,” Meg said with a dry laugh.

Castiel bit down on his tongue, trying to prevent himself from coming to Dean’s defense. After what he’d just tricked Meg into doing, he knew he shouldn’t pick a fight. Still, he couldn’t help how clipped his tone was when he said, “Thank you for not telling them the truth.”

He turned the truck into Meg’s neighborhood, already picking out her house’s windows, glinting with fiery light in the afternoon sun.

Meg didn’t seem to notice where they were. She just stared at him for a few seconds before saying, “Look, Castiel. I get it, okay? Having to hide from your family—it sucks. But I can’t play lovey-dovey with you forever, get me? It’s demeaning.”

He pulled to the curb in front of her house, his stomach fluttering guiltily at her words. He felt he should apologize again, but it would probably sound weak.

“I mean, what am I supposed to do? Walk down the aisle but let Dean sign the marriage certificate? Pretend those two-point-five blue-eyed, bowlegged kids are mine? You gotta know it’s never gonna work out with him, right?”

He didn’t want to talk about this. He didn’t want to think about it. It was a problem for another day, and he’d gladly put it off. All he wanted to do now was go to Dean, to kiss him until he could pretend everything was fine.

The problem was: he’d never stop wanting to do that, and there would be a day when he couldn’t any longer.

“You can pick your significant other,” she said. “But, tough luck. You can’t pick your family. So, you better figure out what you’re doing here before the cat gets out, because you’ll just end up hurting yourself way more than you hurt that Ken doll.”

He appreciated her concern, and he knew she was right. He just didn’t want her to be.

Thankfully, she didn’t expect him to make up his mind right then and there. The truck’s door creaked as she opened it, and she jumped out onto her lawn. She turned back around again and said, “And do me a favor. Next time you need a pretend girlfriend, bring some cash, mkay? I don’t come cheap.”

She closed the door with a bang so loud, Castiel almost winced. Or perhaps that was because he felt so terrible. He didn’t deserve her as a friend, nor did he deserve any more nice afternoons with his siblings, and he certainly didn’t deserve Dean.

He didn’t want to lie to any of them anymore, but the truth would only destroy everything.

He put the truck back into drive and pulled back onto the street, feeling lower than he ever had.

///

As it turned out, fall semester being in session and having a boyfriend didn’t mix very well. In the couple of weeks between summer and fall classes, Dean had gotten used to Cas swinging by the garage to have lunch with him or just to hang out, just like he’d gotten accustomed to spending the evenings with him, whether alone or with Claire and Jack, before his shifts at Harvelle’s.

But now that school was back in full swing for every student, all Cas ever wanted to do was study. He’d even opted for some classes that let out close to 7 PM instead of the early morning timeslots because “I made the mistake of signing up for an 8 AM class freshman year, Dean, and I’ve learned my lesson.”

Even on the days he didn’t have the later class, he was at the library or the gym for hours. Dean wanted to join him, but the library bored him out of his mind (seriously, he couldn’t even talk to Cas without someone, usually Cas, shushing him) and he was way too out of shape for boxing, he quickly discovered. So both of those things were out.

It was made even more unbearable because Sam was busy, too. When he wasn’t in class or studying, he was either at his job at the law firm (yes, _job_ —not an internship anymore—even if it was filing paperwork and making copies, it was a real payroll job now) or with Eileen now that she was back in town.

The only time Dean saw any of them for a significant amount of time anymore was on the weekends, and a lot of times it was too loud and he was too drunk to remember very much of it. But it was okay. It was good. Dean had his own responsibilities, too, and he was jumping on every job Crowley gave him. Hell, he was practically asking Crowley for jobs at this point, mostly because he had nothing better to do. But he needed to take on as much as he could to make up for the pay cut, too.

Every time, Crowley asked Dean if he’d considered his offer for riskier jobs, and every time Dean became more and more tempted, even if he didn’t know the details and he still hadn’t met Crowley’s new partner. He was almost looking for a reason to say yes.

A couple weeks into the semester, Dean found that reason.

It was a weeknight, and one of the rare ones that Sam was actually home for dinner. Eileen had started up her internship at the hospital again, and Cas was at the library, so Dean took the opportunity to hang out with his brother. He made a pizza from scratch; they watched a crappy movie and knocked back a few beers. It was just like old times until Sam went into his room to do his assigned reading.

Dean stayed in the living room, barely paying attention to the nature program on screen. He kept tapping his phone, checking if Crowley had texted him for another delivery, but so far he was SOL. Antsy, he got up to grab another slice of pizza from the fridge. It was cold by now, the cheese all congealed and the oil solidified. It’d be the breakfast of champions tomorrow morning, but he didn’t see the problem with it being the dessert of champions, too.

Because that’s one of the many things he liked to do when he was bored. Eat.

He grabbed two slices and put them down on a couple of paper towels, balancing them on his palm as he made for Sam’s room. He opened the door without knocking, and caught sight of Sam on his laptop at his desk by the window. His back was facing Dean, and Dean was able to get a glimpse of the computer screen before Sam X’ed out the window and jumped.

“Dude! For the last time—knock!” Sam yelled. Dean wasn’t really listening though. He stood in the doorway, trying to blink away what he’d just seen, but the image was burned into his retinas.

He wished it’d been porn. Why couldn’t Sam just be a normal kid and surf for porn?

Dean dropped his shoulders and brandished the pizza. “Thought you still might be hungry.” He placed one of the pizzas on Sam’s nightstand and took the other to the bed, where he plopped down and folded his legs under him.

Sam apparently dropped the whole privacy thing, because he sighed and said, “Thanks.” He got up, pointedly not looking back at his laptop but trying to make it look casual, and walked to his slice of pizza.

Dean stared down at his own, picking at the pepperoni. He wasn’t really hungry anymore.

“We gonna talk about the apartments you were just looking at?” he asked, trying to keep his tone flippant, before shoving a bite of the pizza into his mouth.

From the brief flash Dean had seen, they looked way too sunny and luxurious to be anywhere in Lawrence.

Sam sighed again, his hands hanging limply at his sides as he loomed over the pizza on the nightstand. After a long second, he picked it up. “I wasn’t seriously looking at them,” he said, and brought his food to his desk. He sat back down, but kept his legs over the side of the chair so he could still face Dean. “I mean, it’s still three years away, right?”

Dean swallowed, a piece of cheese sticking to the roof of his mouth. He nodded off to the middle distance somewhere. Yeah, it was three years off, but the fact that Sam was already looking at his living options meant he was excited for it.

Dean wished he had a drink to sip on. That might make this a little easier.

“They looked expensive.”

Sam scoffed. He still hadn’t touched his food. It was just sitting there on the napkin in his hand. “Yeah, it’s California. Everything’s expensive. I’m gonna have to start saving up. Good thing I’m getting paid now, right?”

“Yeah,” Dean agreed, but his voice sounded raspy and the single syllable was way too difficult to get out. He forced himself to look at Sam—with his stretched out long legs and that dumb pizza in his hand and his textbooks on his desk next to him. Who was going to be the first one in their family with a college degree, who already had a fancy job in an office building, who was going to be a lawyer and do some good someday. “You really wanna go, huh?”

Dean didn’t think he could stop him, even if he wanted to. And he did want to. Kind of. But he didn’t want to, too.

Sam brought his eyes down to his food. “Yeah, Dean. I do.” He sounded a little guilty, and Dean didn’t want that.

He made a decision.

“Well,” he started, his voice going up in pitch, lost to a grunt, as he lifted himself off the bed, “you ain’t gonna be able to save up enough on your own.”

Sam looked up immediately, forehead lined and brows dipping into his eyes. “What?”

Dean took another bite. Mouth full, he mumbled, “Do your homework.”

He left the room, aware of Sam’s gaze following him out. He closed the door without looking back, and told himself to act before he changed his mind.

Standing out in the dark hallway by himself, he bit down on the crust of his pizza so he’d have both hands free. His mouth watered a little around the bite, but he ignored it. He got his phone out of his pocket and typed out a text to Crowley.

_I’m game for the bigger jobs. Just tell me where and when_

He hit send.

///

A few hours later, when Dean’s phone buzzed with a text, he expected it to be from Crowley telling him to meet up somewhere. Instead, it was Cas.

 _I need you to come over right now_ , it said, perfectly punctuated and everything. Dean stared down at his screen for a few long seconds, trying to gauge the tone of the text. His initial reaction was a weird, swooping sensation in his gut, and a thousand irrational scenarios played in his mind. Like Cas had found out that Dean was smuggling drugs and wanted to break up with him.

Or Cas told his family that they were dating and they talked some sense into him—and he wanted to break up with him.

Or Cas was too busy with school for a relationship so he wanted to break up with him.

Or that he was in trouble.

And he wanted to break up with him.

But that was stupid, right? Dean was just being paranoid. Texts always read as cold and impersonal. Cas might just want to watch a movie or something. After all, it was _Cas_. It could have meant anything.

Right?

 _Everything ok?_ he texted back.

He watched the gray typing bubble appear. And then disappear. And then appear again.

And then disappear.

What the fuck?

_Yes. Please, come over._

As he drove to Cas’, he kept trying to decipher the meaning behind the texts. He’d practically worked himself up into a frenzy by the time he pulled into the parking lot outside Cas’ building. Cas was at the side door, sitting down on the step beneath it, like he’d been waiting for Dean.

He didn’t look pissed, but Cas was always kind of hard to read; and he didn’t have a bag of the DVDs and cassette tapes Dean lent him, so that was a good sign. But why the hell was he just sitting outside in the darkness? The only light was the white one above the door that was attracting the last of the moths that hung around before summer ended.

Dean’s stomach twisted as he got out of the Impala, slamming the door just hard enough for it to echo along the asphalt of the lot. Cas stood up, shoulders rigid and back straight. His fists were clenched at his sides as he stared at Dean like he was ready to have a blowout fight. It made Dean wonder what he did.

He was sure it was something—he just didn’t know what. Thinking back on the last couple days, nothing really came to mind.

He’d given Cas a key to his apartment earlier in the week. Was that it? Cas had seemed pretty happy about it at the time. It had earned Dean a smile and, more importantly, a blowjob that Cas was getting increasingly better at. But had it been too much? Was Dean moving too fast? He’d never really been in a relationship before. He didn’t know the timelines for this crap.

As his boots sounded on the brick walkway, Dean fanned out his arms questioningly. “What’s the matter?”

Cas waited until Dean had come to a stop in front of him to say, “Hello, Dean. Thank you for coming.” His voice sounded stiff, kind of businesslike. It was freaking Dean out.

But then Cas leaned in and pecked a kiss to the corner of Dean’s mouth, so he guessed they weren’t breaking up. Which was awesome. But it kind of only left more questions.

Dean pulled his eyebrows together, and then arched them. “What’s goin’ on, Cas? You good?”

Cas nodded. “Yes, I’m fine.” But he wasn’t. Now that Dean was closer to him, and not totally panicking, he realized Cas was nervous. Why was he nervous?

“We should go inside,” Cas said, and turned around. He went to the keypad next to the door and punched in the code, saying, “The code is 4-6-8-9.” The red light on the keypad blinked green, and there was a sound of an automatic latch opening from the door. Cas pushed the tempered glass open and looked over his shoulder at Dean. Sheepishly, he said, “It’s the same for the front door. I thought . . . since I can access your apartment now . . . You should know the code to mine.”

Dean already knew the door code. He’d known it for a while. He’d slyly eyed Cas punching it in months ago and just kind of remembered it. It was four numbers. It wasn’t exactly hard to remember.

But Dean understood the gesture, so he said, “Oh. Okay. Thanks.”

Cas nodded, thinning his lips and looking down. He started to walk inside, but Dean grabbed his arm, stopping him. “Dude. What’s up?”

“The door’s alarm will go off if it’s open for too long,” Cas deflected.

Dean was at a total loss. “Why are you being so weird?”

Cas sighed. “I know we haven’t been able to spend as much time together since school started. I wanted to make it up to you. I have a surprise for you. Come with me.” He held out his hand for Dean to take, and Dean only stared at it warily. His eyes moved back up to meet Cas’, trying to figure out what the hell was going on. Cas didn’t have to apologize for focusing on his responsibilities. Sure, it’d be nice if Dean were a priority, but he was cool with being put on the backburner for a while—as long as Cas wasn’t breaking up with him.

Cas’ expression softened into something gentle and disarming. “Please?”

Dean trusted him. He slipped his hand into Cas’, and Cas led him into the building. He didn’t let go of Dean’s hand, even though his fingers were clenched tightly and his palms were a little sweaty, even when they were in the elevator. He tugged Dean down the hall to his apartment, and fumbled with the keys a little before unlocking it, muttering something about a locksmith and a spare key for Dean.

Inside was quiet, which meant Balthazar probably wasn’t home. Dean had no idea why Cas was so worked up about taking him to his apartment. “Not much of a surprise,” Dean told him, trying to make light of the situation in order to quell his own nerves. “I mean, no offense, but it’s not like I haven’t been here before.”

“No, I—I know that. This isn’t the surprise,” Cas said. There was a blush creeping up his neck. Dean lifted his hand up and ran his finger down the pink, heated skin, and Cas’ breath tripped in an exhale.

Dean had about enough of the guessing game. “Cas. What’s going on?”

Cas’ hand tightened in his, and he pulled Dean into his bedroom. That’s when he let his grip fall away, and Dean’s arm swung uselessly at his side as he took in the room. It looked pretty normal, except the bed was made, which he didn’t think he’d ever seen. And there was an old boombox on the nightstand. Most significantly, there were five or six unlit candles on the floor surrounding the bed.

“You trying to sacrifice me or something?” Dean asked, but he thought he knew what was really going on here.

Cas blinked down at the floor. “No. I was trying to be romantic. I thought . . . Tonight, we could—um.” He fumbled for a second, and then blurted out, “I bought condoms,” before turning even pinker.

Dean bit down the grin that threatened to crack his cheeks. He looked at the opposite wall from where Cas stood, his hand forming into a fist at his side and he wanted so badly to pump it in the air in victory. “Oh, I get it. This is a booty-call,” he teased.

Cas ignored him. “I, um—,” he said, going over to the nightstand. “I put in the mixed tape you made for me before you went away.” He punched down on a few of the buttons on the boombox like he had no idea whether or not he was turning on the music or arming a bomb. But, luckily, the tape whirled and started to play. Zepp’s _Thank You_ started playing.

When Dean got a hold of himself, he managed to say, “You know, Cas, if you wanted to have sex, all you had to do was ask.” He could hear the giddiness in his own tone, and he felt like his eyes were shining.

Finally, Cas looked directly at him, some of his nerves relaxing away. “Only if you want—.”

“Oh, I want.”

A big, gummy smile spread across Cas’ face, and Dean let out a breath of laughter as he crossed the room, slotted his hand under Cas’ jaw, and kissed that smile. Cas kissed him back, saccharine and unhurried, and the sweetness of it caused an ache in Dean’s chest.

“You sure?” Dean asked when the kiss broke. He stayed close, ready to jump back in at a moment’s notice.

Cas was staring down at his mouth, his teeth scraping across his bottom lip. He nodded. “Yes.”

It was probably the best _I love you_ Dean had ever heard.

“And you’re sure?” Cas double-checked, still seeming a little antsy. “This is what you want?”

“Only want you, babe.” Dean dipped back in, moving his mouth against Cas’, taking his time to enjoy the feel of it—the slide of his tongue, the scratch of his chapped lips, the moisture and warmth and the gentle smacking sounds it made. Cas’ hands found their way to Dean’s waist, and he pulled their bodies closer together until their chests touched. Dean wrapped his arms around Cas’ back, holding him tight. Because this was his. Because he wasn’t letting go of it.

Cas gasped a little into his mouth, and then turned slightly away. Dean kissed the corner of his lips, his cheeks, beneath his eye. “I didn’t light the candles.”

“Fire hazard,” Dean said against Cas’ jaw.

“But—.”

Dean let a laugh rumble out of his chest. He didn’t need candles and rose petals and scented oils. Yeah, okay, maybe he wouldn’t _hate_ it, and maybe he felt his gut flutter at the very idea that Cas wanted to give him that kind of romance, but he was more interested in making out at the moment. All the other stuff seemed inconsequential. He brought his hand back up to cradle Cas’ face and turned him back into him. “Such—a—girl,” he said between kisses.

Cas seemed to forget about the candles after that. He made soft noises into Dean’s mouth, and Dean thought it was okay to start pushing Cas’ coat off his shoulders. Cas let it happen easily, shrugging it off and letting it slip to the floor. His palms came up and wrapped around Dean’s shoulders, and he worked on getting his overshirt off.

Dean reached between them and hooked two fingers into the front of Cas’ pants to tug him in closer, and Cas grunted a little in surprise. Dean felt his smile, and he unbuckled Cas’ belt. Cas’ smoothed his hands, warm through the fabric of his t-shirt, down Dean’s back and then shucked them up inside to explore the expanse of his spine.

There was a slow build of pressure in Dean’s groin at being touched like that—not with urgency, and not quite with heat, but with something he really didn’t want to name because it was way too big to even think about.

They broke the kiss long enough for Cas to lift Dean’s shirt over his head, and Dean brought his arms up to rid himself of it completely. Cas’ mouth was on his chest, then, lining his skin with nipping kisses and slowly making his way up to his clavicle. Dean shivered under the ministrations, his throat going dry.

God, they weren’t even naked yet. They weren’t even in bed yet. And, already, he was finding it hard to breathe.

He swallowed hard when Cas came back up, and he decided to get this show on the road. He fisted his hand into the knot of Cas’ tie and yanked him gently towards the bed. Cas went easily, grinning the entire way.

Dean sat down on the edge of the mattress, and Cas climbed up to straddle his lap. He took Dean’s jaw in his hands and kissed him more heatedly now, pulling gasps from both of their throats. Dean undid his tie, pulled his shirttails out of the hem of his pants, and flew his fingers down the front buttons until the shirt was open to reveal Cas’ sturdy chest and stomach. He pushed the shirt off and let it fall to the floor.

Cas pressed into him, making Dean lean back slowly, first catching himself by the elbows, and then bringing them both down onto the comforter. He toed off his shoes, hearing them clunk dully as they hit the floor. The whole time, he was scraping his fingers up and down Cas’ back, and Cas was working on the one spot on his neck that always made his heart rate pick up.

His jeans were straining against him now, and he wanted so badly to take them off. Cas rolled his hips once, languidly against Dean’s belly button, and Dean felt the erection building in him, too. Dean wanted him harder. He wanted to make this feel so good for him.

He kicked his knee over Cas’ hips and flipped them over. Cas let out a breath at the sudden rush as his back hit the bed. Dean grinned down at him—his bruised, wet lips and blown out pupils. He kissed a line down Cas’ torso until he was off the bed, where Cas’ legs were bent over the edge. He knelt down and slipped Cas’ shoes and socks off, and then came back up to slide Cas’ pants off. Cas lifted himself off the bed just enough to help, and Dean focused on the sound of his heavy breathing filling up the room.

When the pants were gone, Dean kissed the jut of his hips, the soft flesh over the elastic of his boxers. He mouthed at his cock through the fabric, and heard Cas’ breath hitch loudly. He didn’t stop until there was a wet mark blooming on the front of the boxers and his own hips were pitching against the side of the bed.

He crawled back up Cas’ body and laid himself down flat atop of him. They rolled into each other, their bodies moving together to find the right amount of friction as their mouths kissed and their hands roamed. Dean smoothed his palms down the straits of Cas’ ribs, and Cas traversed the valley of Dean’s shoulder blades. Dean kissed the cleft of his chin, and Cas smiled at that.

Cas flipped them over again and stared down at Dean.

“How d’you wanna do this, Cas?” Dean asked, having to swallow hard before he did so. He knew what _he_ wanted. He just didn’t know how to ask for it. He thought he’d kill the mood if he tried to put it into words.

But Cas was giving Dean another one of those looks like he could see straight through to his soul, so he was pretty sure he already knew. He dipped down and pressed his mouth chastely to Dean’s jaw. “I want what you want,” he said. And then another kiss, this time to his Adam’s apple. “What do you want, Dean?” His voice was a low rasp against Dean’s skin, and the sound of it alone was one hell of a turn on. “Do you want me to make love to you?”

Dean felt his skin heat up, because _yes, yes, yes_ , but it was so mortifying to say it.

“Don’t _say_ shit like that!”

Cas came back up, his brow creased with a line right down the middle. “Why? I want to make love to you.”

Dean brought his hand up to shield his eyes. “Oh my _god_.”

Cas slotted his thigh between Dean’s legs and started moving it slowly up and down against Dean’s dick. Dean let his hand fall away from his face as everything in his body zeroed in on the sensation.

“Dean,” Cas said, voice like sandpaper. He arched one brow down at Dean. “Take off your pants and lay against the pillows.”

Dean grunted, ready to comply. Cas rolled off of him, making him feel cold and paralyzed until his body readjusted, to sit back on his knees and open the drawer of the nightstand.

As Dean shimmied out of his jeans and boxers, he realized _You Shook Me_ was mid-song coming from the boombox. He moved up the bed to face the right way and leaned his back against the pillows.

Cas came back quickly with a tube of KY, the same kind Dean had at his place, and a condom still in its silver square wrapping. He fit himself between Dean’s knees, pressing their hips together. Dean felt his heart slamming against his chest, raging with wild excitement and nervousness. Fuck, this was really about to happen.

This—this _mattered_. And it was really going to happen.

He wrapped his fingers around Cas’ neck, letting them slide up into his hair, and brought him back in for a kiss. He reached down with his free hand and snapped at the band of Cas’ boxers, letting him know he was taking them off, before pulling them down. Cas kicked them off the rest of the way, and then there was nothing between them and Dean felt his whole body trip at the feeling of Cas’ dick against his.

His thighs pulsed, and he could feel his heartbeat in his fingertips. “Cas.”

He heard the KY bottle snap open, and then the wet sound as Cas warmed it in his fingers. “Tell me if I’m doing this wrong,” Cas asked him. “I don’t want to—.”

“Fuck, just do it, Cas.” He put his leg around Cas again, and Cas reached behind him. His fingers skated over Dean’s opening, and Dean buried his forehead into Cas’ chest just before he slipped a finger inside.

Dean let out a shaky breath. It was kind of a weird feeling. It had been a long time since he jerked himself off like that, and he’d sure as hell never had anyone else stick their finger up his ass. Cas started to move, pulling back out before pushing in again, over and over. Dean got accustomed to it pretty quickly—either that, or it felt too good for him to care.

He hummed, trying to get a grip on himself as Cas worked him. He realized his fingers were digging into the muscles of Cas’ shoulders. And then Cas added a second finger, and Dean saw white for half a second before slamming his eyes closed and getting lost in the sensation. It left a slow, dragging burn, but it wasn’t unpleasant.

His body started to roll back into Cas’ fingers, and he could only imagine what it’d feel like when it was his dick instead.

He couldn’t think of very much when Cas hit his G-spot just right, and Dean felt like someone had punched the air out of his lungs. “Fuck, Cas. Jesus.”

“What? Did I do something wrong?” Cas asked, stopping momentarily. He sounded worried.

Dean shook his head, and his hold on Cas tightened. “No, it’s—it’s good. It was _very_ good.”

Cas’ relaxed. As if to ground himself as he slowly began moving inside Dean again, his other hand went up to cradle the back of Dean’s neck. It was still slick with gel, but Dean didn’t care. All of him was covered with sweat and pre-come anyway, so it really didn’t make much of a difference.

When Cas put in a third finger, Dean had to sink his teeth into the curve of his shoulder. He told himself not to come, not yet, not before the main event. That would be so embarrassing. But Cas seemed dead-set on making that happen. He sped up his movements, and all Dean could do was hold on for dear life as he rode his fingers.

And then Cas pulled out, and Dean gasped at the sudden loss. He fell back against the pillows, letting the softness of them settle into his bones, and blinked. He was taken out of his reverie when Cas put the condom in his open hand.

“Open that,” he said. It took a second for the words to process. Dean was too fucked out to lift both hands, so he brought the one up and opened the wrapping with his teeth. Cas pressed a quick kiss to his lips and said, “Dean.”

How the hell was his voice so steady?

Fuckin’ robot.

Dean found his will to move, spurred on by the thought of Cas being inside him the quicker they got the prep done. He reached between them and stroked Cas gently, making Cas’ spine rattle with pleasure. He rolled the condom up Cas’ erection, and then grabbed the gel. He slicked up his palm and jerked Cas with it, causing him to lose some of his composure.

Dean’s name tripped out his mouth and he snapped his hips into Dean’s fist.

“Come on, babe,” Dean said, tugging him one last time, and Cas made a bratty, annoyed sound when it was over. Dean reminded him that it’d be worth it by fitting his other leg over Cas’ hips and pulling him down on top of him.

“You ready?” Dean asked, giving Cas one last out if he needed it—even though it’d suck. At the same time, he braced himself.

Cas nodded. “Yes.” His voice was thick now. “Are you?”

Dean swallowed hard. Yes, he was ready. He was _so_ ready. He just needed to relax.

In way of an answer, Dean scooted down more on the bed to line himself up better under Cas, and Cas angled himself so that the tip of his cock was brushing against Dean’s ass. Dean gulped at the feeling. Cas was _right there_. Dean wrapped his hands around Cas’ arms, readying himself with something to hold on to.

And then Cas pushed inside him, making stars burst into Dean’s vision. He realized his breathing had become hurried and his body tensed up, but it felt so good. Good and bad—like massaging out a really deep knot in your shoulder. Pleasure and pain, and Dean didn’t know he could ever feel this filled up. He hadn’t even known he’d been empty before.

Cas stayed inside of him, unmoving until they both got used to it. He was shaking a little bit, letting out little noises like he was stopping himself from moving by sheer force of will. Dean caught his breath, forcing his muscles to ease. He told himself he could do this. This was Cas. He wanted this. Mustering himself, he jerked his hips a little to tell Cas to get going, and then Cas started to move in small, circular motions, slipping halfway out before moving back in.

Each tiny movement elicited a kind of burning pain that rubbed Dean just the right way, and eventually he relaxed into it. Every nerve ending in his body was hyper-focused on the feeling of Cas thrusting gently in and out him, both of them working into a rhythm.

Cas’ stomach dragged against Dean’s dick every now and again, adding to the electricity sparking throughout Dean’s bones. He dropped his head into the crook of Dean’s neck, groaning out his name. When he brought it back up, his eyes latched onto Dean’s and didn’t tear away. His lips were parted slightly, sucking in air. And Dean couldn’t stop staring.

And he couldn’t stop the noises that were bursting past his lips every time Cas moved back into him. This felt better than a blowjob or a hand job or anything else. This was all consuming pleasure. He couldn’t even _think_ of anything else.

Cas’ arms were trembling a little bit where he was bracing himself at the elbows, and Dean knew he was holding back. He wanted to go faster, but he was trying not to hurt Dean. And Dean honestly didn’t know if he’d be able to handle any more speed, but he wanted it. He wanted Cas deeper inside of him, and he wanted it to feel good for Cas, too.

Dean opened his mouth, trying to say Cas’ name, but the only thing that came out was a rough, splintered sound that scratched up his throat. He slid his hand down off Cas’ back, lightly grazing his fingers to Cas’ elbow. Cas gave a little shuddering sound, and then Dean grinded back into him a little harder, hoping to get the message across. It dragged a low, long moan out of Cas’ mouth, and his hips started to snap a little faster.

Dean’s fingers wrapped tighter around Cas’ arm as he got used to the feeling.

His thoughts were tumbling a mile a minute, and he couldn’t latch onto a single one. But then one rose up over the din, and his cheeks turned red when it told him, _this really is making love_.

Cas changed his angle a little, and hit against Dean’s prostate. Dean heard a loud sound escape him, and his hands scrambled to find a different part of Cas to hang onto. “Right there, Cas,” he gasped out, voice strained. “Damn it.” One of his hands found Cas’ ass, and he dug his fingers into it, pushing Cas harder and deeper into him, and Cas cried out before he started moving even faster.

Dean’s dick twitched with need, but when reached down to stroke himself, Cas swatted his hand out of the way and wrapped his own fingers around it.

When Cas bottomed out, his pace became a little faster, a little choppier. He was whispering disjointed thoughts about how good it felt and how much he’d wanted to do this and that he loved Dean. He was losing control of himself, his dick pulling out almost all the way before slamming back inside over and over again, the slick sound of their bodies coming together filling the space.

He dropped his head into the crook of Dean’s neck again and let out a few deep, growling sounds that made Dean’s eyes roll back. Cas kept hitting his prostate, sending fresh waves of electricity throughout Dean’s body. He lifted one arm up to wrap his hand around the bedframe, and Dean could hear the wood knock against the wall as Cas used it for leverage to sink in and out of him.

Dean felt his orgasm building up inside his body, starting from the soles of his feet and the tips of his fingers and spreading out towards his dick. Everything in him was humming like it never had before, and he thought this was probably gonna be a _really_ powerful orgasm. He moved his body between Cas’ hand and cock, and it was sensation overload in the best way. It was getting harder to find air, and then the pressure was too much. His body juddered and tensed as he pushed himself up into Cas’ fist. His eyes locked onto Cas as he came, riding out the waves as Cas kept moving inside of him.

And he’d been right. He came so hard, he thought he actually went blind for a second. Jesus . . .

And then Cas started going very fast, until his body locked up and his lips pulled into a snarl and he let out a growling sound. _Fuck_.

They rode out the last, shuddering shocks together, and then stilled against one another.

 _What Is and What Should Never Be_ filtered into Dean’s conscious.

Dean’s mind was whirling a mile per minute, but he couldn’t latch onto a single coherent thought. He felt Cas softening inside of him, and then felt him pull out with a slick sound, and then the only thing he felt was emptiness, like something was missing. And wasn’t that such a chick-flick thing to think? That he didn’t feel complete without Cas.

After a long couple of seconds, Cas rolled off of him and laid down at his side. He looked up at the ceiling, chest flush with exertion and rising and falling rapidly.

Dean formed his mouth into an o-shape and let out a long breath. “Not bad,” he said when he found his voice. It hurt to talk.

A wide smile burst onto Cas’ face, riding on the tails of a puff of laughter. “No,” he agreed.

Dean looked down his body, making the mistake of placing one hand on his stomach, right into his own come. He made a face and wiped his palm on the sheets, and Cas didn’t seem to notice. It was getting chilly as the sweat dried on his skin, so he shifted up to pull the covers out from under them. He winced a little in the process, because damn his ass hurt. It would probably be sorer in the morning, but it was so worth it.

He knew they should probably get cleaned up, but he didn’t want to move any more than he had to. His muscles were like weights, body lethargic. He wanted to sleep.

That’d been one hell of a work out.

And he wondered how it was for Cas. A thought pulled itself from the back of his mind, making him question whether or not Cas was comparing him to Meg. He wondered if he was as good as her, if Cas enjoyed it as much.

He swallowed, trying to beat the thought away. It didn’t matter. Cas was with him now. Cas loved him. He never loved Meg. That wasn’t changing. Dean would make sure of that.

As if Cas could sense his turbulent thoughts, he sidled up closer to Dean and rolled onto his side. “What is it?”

“Hmm?” Dean turned his head to look at him, and tried to even out his expression. “Nothin’.”

“Dean.”

“It’s nothing,” Dean said again. “It’s just . . . I—.”

He couldn’t say it. Those three words. It would be too corny to say them after sex.

He wanted to say them, he just didn’t know how. Or when.

Cas said, “You don’t have to say it, Dean. I know.”

It only made Dean feel worse. Cas didn’t deserve that. He didn’t deserve _me too_ or _you too_ or _back at’cha, bud_. He deserved to hear the words.

 _I love you_.

Dean had thought them countless times. There was always a roadblock when they got to his lips.

“I do, you know?”

What the fuck was wrong with him?

He just got the stupidest feeling that, as soon as it said it, Cas would dissipate into thin air, like smoke.

“I know.” Cas kissed his cheek, chaste and long. “I do, too, Dean.”

Dean turned into him, fit his hand under Cas’ jaw, and kissed him. He’d never been very good with words. He hoped maybe this would get Cas to understand just how much he loved him.

///

Dean woke up to a steady vibrating sound somewhere close to his head. He blinked blearily into consciousness in time to see the dim light from his cell phone fade to black on the nightstand next to him. He hated when people texted him during the night—it always woke him up—and he had half a mind to ignore it; but, in his sleep-addled state, he thought it might be Sam texting about some emergency.

He winced at the onslaught of bright light when he unlocked his phone, and saw a notification from a number that wasn’t saved in his contacts. There was an address and a meet up time for fifteen minutes from now. It must have been Crowley’s new partner, and they had a job for him. That was fast.

Dean groaned, dropping his face back into his pillow. Next to him, Cas rolled over in sleep, but didn’t wake up. The motion caused the blanket over him to slip down from his shoulder, tan skin tinted with shadow in the darkness. His lashes were crescent moons against his cheeks. Dean didn’t want to get up.

But he needed the money.

Reluctantly, he dragged himself out of bed, the conditioned air giving him goose bumps until he was able to find his jeans and shirts on the floor. He sat—slowly, because, shit, his ass hurt in the best way—on the edge of the mattress, feeling it dip under his weight, to pull on his boots, and then swiveled around to look at Cas. His heart tugged a little at the thought of leaving him, even if he was planning on coming right back.

He pulled the blanket back up onto Cas’ shoulder to make him more comfortable, and Cas stirred gently. He hummed, eyes fluttering open. Dean’s gut twisted until he realized Cas was barely conscious, and probably wouldn’t remember this in the morning. He was in the clear.

“Dean?” Cas mumbled, his hand shooting out towards him but missing by a few inches before falling back to the bed.

“Keep sleeping,” Dean coaxed in a whisper. “I’ll be right back. Promise.” He dipped forward and pressed a kiss to the side of Cas’ nose. Cas nodded, probably not knowing what he was agreeing to, and then he was asleep again. Dean had never felt so guilty in his life. Cas trusted him, clearly, and Dean was practically lying to him by keeping a secret from him.

He stood up and put on his overshirt, putting his hands in his jeans pockets to make sure his keys were still there. He told himself this had nothing to do with Cas.

Ten minutes later, he was standing along the fence outside the Holcom Park Rec Center’s baseball field. The metal bleachers reflected the crisp silver moonlight, and the wind whistled as it whipped through the dugout. He checked his watch. It was ten past two.

A shadow over near home plate caught his eye, and he saw a figure walking around the fence towards him. She past into the pool of light from a lamppost, and Dean saw a familiar head of brown hair.

“Oh, you’ve _got_ to be shitting me,” he grumbled, not bothering to keep his voice down.

“Hey-ya, Dean,” Meg said as she approached, flashing him a sharp grin that was anything but genuine.

There was no way she was Crowley’s new partner. No way she was Dean’s new boss. There had to be another explanation as to why she was out here, taking a walk at two in the morning.

“What’s a girl like you doing out here at a time like this?” Dean asked. “You lookin’ to suck the blood out of somebody?”

“Cute. Don’t make me dock your pay.”

Son of a bitch.

He groaned, putting his hands in his front pockets and looking up at the sky as if expecting divine intervention. It really didn’t surprise him that she was there. It was only a matter of time until she got wrapped up in her family’s business.

“ _You’re_ the new partner?”

“Trust me, I’m just as happy to see you as you are to see me,” she shot back. Dean wished he was back in bed next to Cas. He should have never left.

She lifted a brow at him and crossed her arms over her chest. “So, let’s not prolong this, mkay?”

That worked just fine for him. Before he could say so, his phone started going off in his pocket. He took it out, blood instantly curling. Cas. Shit.

He ignored the call and stuffed the phone back into his jeans.

“Something important?” she asked.

“What am I doing here, Meg?”

As she stepped closer to him, she took out a slip of folded paper from her pocket and offered it to him between two fingers. He snatched it from her, careful not to touch her skin as he did, and opened it.

_LMH_   
_1:45 AM_   
_Loading Dock B_

He held up the paper and said, “What the hell is this?”

“Your next payday,” she told him. “Go there at that time tomorrow night. Someone will come out and give you something. I’ll text you then and tell you where to bring them.”

So, it _was_ drugs. Dean knew it. After all, he hadn’t really expected it to be rare Beanie Babies. He was thinking it was meth or heroin, but hospital drugs? Was there even a black market for those?

Wait, was he fueling the nation’s opium epidemic?

His phone started ringing again, making him grunt. It was Cas. Again. He better take it before Cas overreacted and did something stupid like come looking for him—or worse, call Sam.

“Hang on,” Dean told Meg, and turned his back to her. He walked a few paces until he could whisper into the phone out of her earshot, and answered the call.

“Hey.”

“Dean! Where are you?” Cas sounded frantic. “I woke up and—.”

“Relax. I just . . . had to go home to pick something up. I’m coming right back,” he lied.

Over the line, he heard Cas give a sigh of relief. He could almost picture it, Cas sitting up in bed, hair askew, face lined from the pillow, with his phone clutched close to his face. “Oh. Okay. I just . . . Wait, what did you need to pick up?”

Damn it. Dean was really hoping Cas wouldn’t ask that. That’s what he gets for dating an A student.

“My, uh—phone charger,” he said, saying the first thing that popped into his head. He closed his eyes and shook his head, inwardly cursing himself for being a dumbass.

Cas paused. “Your phone charger?” he deadpanned, like he didn’t believe it.

“Yeah, you know. My phone’s on like, ten percent. I didn’t want it dying unless Sam called.”

“Dean.” Another pause. “I have a phone charger. You could have borrowed mine.”

Why the fuck did he say phone charger?

“Yeah, I know,” he said, voice going up in pitch. “You just—I didn’t know where it was. Didn’t want to wake you up.”

“So, your solution was to drive across town in the middle of the night to get yours?”

Dean swallowed. He chanced a look behind him at Meg, who was scowling. There was no way she didn’t know who he was talking to. He tried to give her a shaky grin, and held up one finger to signal he wouldn’t be much longer.

“Yes?”

Cas sighed again, and this time it sounded a little less relieved. “Are you sure . . .? It wasn’t because of—? Of last night?”

The words were like a punch to the gut. He didn’t want Cas to think he was the _love ‘em and leave ‘em_ type. Well, he _was_. Or, he used to be. Not anymore. And definitely not with Cas.

And he definitely didn’t want Cas thinking Dean didn’t enjoy it.

“What? No! No—Hey,” he scrambled to say. “Nothing to do with that. Last night was—It was awesome.” He felt a wistful smile form on his face, and he let out a breath in memory. His ass was still sore; hell, his thighs and abs were pounding with a dull ache, too, and it was like heaven. Then, he remembered Meg was standing right behind him, so he cleared his throat to collect himself and dropped back into a whisper. “You were awesome. You were—fuckin’ fantastic.”

He could practically hear Cas blushing when he responded, “So were you.”

And now, Dean’s heart was fluttering and the tips of his ears were burning. He didn’t need this right now. He needed to wrap up this call so he could finish his business with Meg and get back to Cas. And he’d have to swing home to get his phone charger first, he guessed.

“Good. Great. You, uh, go back to sleep. I’ll be right there.”

“Okay, Dean,” Cas said, sounding content now. Thank god he bought the story. “I love you.”

Another pang of guilt, this one multi-layered.

“Me, too. See you soon.”

He ended the call and put his phone back in his pocket, then spun around to walk back towards Meg. He tried not to let his embarrassment show on his face.

“So, are you taking the job, or did I come out here just to hear you pillow talk with my ex?” Meg asked, sounding snippier now.

Jeez, if only Cas could see them now. A drug lord in training ex-girlfriend and a smuggler boyfriend, both of them working for his mafia-asshole brother. Some people really did have all the luck.

Cas deserved better than any of them. It was only a matter of time until he realized that.

“I’ll take it,” Dean told her shortly. “We done here?”

“We’re done.”

“Great. See you tomorrow night.” He turned back around and started walking away from the fence, in the direction he’d parked the Impala.

“Give Clarence a smooch for me,” she taunted. Dean clamped his jaw shut and walked faster, trying not to let her words get under his skin.

///

The next night, Dean found himself squinting at the letters posted next to the loading docks in the distance. He could see them just fine, and he hadn’t even noticed he’d been narrowing his eyes until he stopped. He sat back, and picked up his cell phone resting on his lap to look at the time.

1:43 AM

There were a few texts from Cas, asking Dean when he got off from work at Harvelle’s, and Dean decided not to answer that right now due to the guilt it caused from lying. There was another from Charlie, asking if he and Cas were thinking about going to some party on Thursday.

He put the phone down and turned back to the loading docks. He was parked on the grass on the side of an unmarked road that ran into the back lot of Lawrence Memorial Hospital. An old chain link fence ran parallel to him, opening up a little ways down the road to grant access to the lot.

On the other side of him, there was a thick copse of trees, and he could hear the occasional revving of engines on the highway through them.

There was no one else around. The metal doors of the loading docks were closed, giant padlocks keeping them that way, and there weren’t any cars in the lot. Dean had been sitting there for five minutes, and he hadn’t seen any headlights on the road coming from either direction, so he was pretty sure he was in the clear. His stomach still twisted kind of painfully though. He didn’t like this. Maybe if Crowley had sent him on this run, he’d feel differently; but it had been Meg, and he didn’t trust that bitch as far as he could throw her.

But, wait, when the hell had he started trusting _Crowley_?

He looked down at his phone again. 1:45. Showtime.

Dean shook his apprehension from his mind and kicked the Impala’s engine back into life, but deliberately kept the headlights off as he drove closer to the hospital’s back wall. The building was mostly dark at that time of night, and Dean didn’t see any figures standing in the windows where the lights were on.

He pulled the car up to the set of stairs leading up to the doorway next to dock B and waited.

And waited.

He checked the time. 1:47.

Was he supposed to go knock on the door? He realized Meg hadn’t given him any instructions.

He decided to give it another thirty seconds. And, ten seconds later, he was ready to call it quits. But then the door creaked open, and somebody popped their head outside. It was some older guy—tall and pale with thinning white hair and a gaunt face that had too-thin leathery skin stretched over his bones. He picked up his thin hand and gestured for Dean to get out of his car.

Dean pulled a face, not really understanding what he was supposed to do. He shook his head, as if to ask what the dude wanted. He didn’t even know if this was the guy he was supposed to be meeting. God, Meg really hadn’t told him anything.

The man seemed to grow a little impatient. He pulled his head back inside, and a couple seconds later, the door opened again and he jostled down the stairs. He was wearing a white lab coat, and Dean could see dress pants and shiny shoes beneath it. He was holding a cardboard box between his hands.

The man came up to the driver’s side door, and Dean stared up at him for a second before cranking down the window.

“Azazel’s sent me another amateur, I see,” was the first thing out of his mouth.

Dean gaped, kind of offended and a little thrown off. He stared up at the wrinkles stretching around the guy’s eyes through his frameless glasses. This guy looked like he belonged back inside the hospital, hacking up snot into a Kleenex. He was way too skeletal, and Dean could only imagine how brittle his bones must have been under all that paper-thin, veiny skin on his hands.

“Huh?” was the only thing he could think to come up with.

“And an idiot, too. At least someone had the foresight of giving me your car’s description.”

Dean rolled his eyes, his brain finally deciding to catch up. “Yeah, well, glad one of us got some info,” he said, bristling a little. Who was this douche?

The guy thinned his lips in annoyance and extended the box in his hands towards Dean. Dean reached out of the window and took it. The contents inside rattled a little as they shifted.

“Next time, knock,” the man said, and he didn’t wait for a response before turning around and heading back up the stairs.

Whatever.

Dean rolled up the window again and kept the box securely on his lap as he turned the car around in a wide circle in the parking lot. As he drove back to the road, he watched his rearview as the guy walked back up the steps and disappeared through the door.

Dean hit the brakes immediately.

He had to know.

He looked down at the box on his lap. It wasn’t taped shut or anything. The flaps were just folded together to keep it closed. He looked around again, making sure he was still alone in the parking lot, before opening the box up and staring inside.

There were bottles upon bottles of prescriptions in there, from oxy to Klonopin. Dean shifted through them, wondering who the hell would buy this shit.

He picked up one bottle and read the label in the silvery light provided by the moon. It was a prescription for Ritalin.

Dean tensed a little at that, his mind instantly going to Sam. And to Jess.

Sam had never gone to a doctor to get a prescription. Hell, they didn’t even have health insurance. He’d gotten it from some chick at the high school. He set the pill bottle back down amongst the others, breathing out a little in thought.

He wondered if the girl had been working for Azazel.

He didn’t want to think about that. He didn’t want to think that his job could result in some other innocent person dying. Or someone else’s little brother getting their hands on this shit.

Fuck.

What the hell was he doing?

He closed the box back up and set it down on the seat next to him, trying his best not to look at it. It was a monolith in his peripheries.

He thought back to that night he saw Raphael at Meg’s house.

How long have the Novaks been running this drug ring?


	14. Chapter 14

Castiel walked out of his building to the parking lot, where Dean was practically elbows deep in the engine of his truck. It had begun to make that clicking sound again, and it was something Dean apparently wouldn’t tolerate.

He’d been tuning up the truck since noontime, when Castiel returned from his only class of the day, as evident from the sweat stains on his t-shirt around the neck, the small of his back, and under his arms. Fall semester had brought with it an influx of students returning to Lawrence for the new school year; it did not, however, bring colder weather in the daytime hours. But, then again, it was only mid-September. He knew he should enjoy the warm days and the comfortably chilly nights while they lasted, before it became frigid all the time.

Before he reached the truck, he took a moment to appreciate the way Dean was bending over it—the angle of his body, the way the muscles of his back shifted like fluid under the cotton of his shirt, his strong arms moving as he worked. Castiel went up behind him and playfully tapped his hand against Dean’s ass.

Dean turned his head to look at him over his shoulder, a smirk blooming on his face. “You enjoying the show?”

“Yes.”

“Where’s my beer?”

Rolling his eyes, Castiel lifted his other hand, where the beer bottle had been dangling at his side. Dean straightened out and grabbed it from him. He twisted off the cap and took a giant gulp, then breathed out, refreshed.

“You could drink water,” Castiel told him.

Dean’s eyes were copper green as he squinted in the sunlight. Small wrinkles formed around them. “I _could_. Wouldn’t love it, though.”

It wasn’t worth the argument—at least, not at the moment. Castiel peered into the engine as if he had any idea what any of the parts did, or how it worked as a whole. “How is it coming?”

After another sip of beer, Dean said, “Pretty good. I think I’m done, actually. Wanna hop in and start ‘er up?”

Castiel fished the keys from his back pocket and went to the driver’s side. The engine rumbled into life when he turned the key in the ignition, and it sounded the way it should have.

“Ha- _ha_! Success!” Dean shouted, spreading his arms out in victory. Castiel figured it was okay to turn off the car, and Dean put the hood down.

“Damn, I’m good. Am I good or what?” Dean was praising himself as Castiel rejoined him in front of the car. He liked seeing Dean in such a good mood, one that was beginning to seem perpetual. He appeared happy. Castiel liked to think he had something to do with that, if only a small something.

“I suppose you’re adequate,” Castiel told him, not without pride.

After finishing the rest of his beer, Dean put the empty bottle on the hood of the car. He started packing up his tools. “So, what d’you wanna do now?”

Castiel squinted towards the road. There were still plenty of hours of daylight left, but he should have been studying. His syllabi were daunting, which he supposed was on par for senior year, and he wanted to get ahead of the reading. Except, he wasn’t motivated to study at the moment.

“Well, firstly, I think you need a shower,” he said, looking back at Dean.

“Why? Do I stink?” Dean asked as he placed the toolbox next to the beer bottle on the hood. He dipped his nose into his armpit to sniff it.

“Yes.”

His brows shot up, causing lines on his forehead. “Oh, that right?” he said in that teasing way that told Castiel he wouldn’t like what came next. Dean stepped forward, putting his leg out to block Castiel’s escape route. “You think so?”

“Dean, stop it.”

Castiel’s back hit against the warm grill of the truck, and Dean crowded into him. He really did smell.

“How bad?” Dean put his arms around him, shoving his hands into Castiel’s back pockets and groping his ass. He slotted their hips together, and Castiel put his hands out on Dean’s chest to keep him away. He wasn’t really struggling, though, and Dean could probably tell that by the grin on Castiel’s face.

“Terribly!”

Dean’s expression was dark and wanting as he stared down at Castiel’s lips, and Castiel knew now how he’d like to spend the rest of the day. He fisted Dean’s shirt and pulled him in for a bruising kiss, and Dean responded at once. However, he pulled back quickly, causing Dean to chase him.

“We should go inside,” Castiel told him.

Dean hummed, and Castiel took that to mean he agreed. They had the presence of mind to collect the empty bottle and toolbox before heading back into the building. They’d only made it inside the elevator when Dean was pressing against him again, kissing him hungrily. Castiel’s hands were on the back of his shirt, twisting the damp fabric as he kissed in return.

When the elevator doors dinged open, Dean grabbed Castiel by the wrist and pulled him down the hall towards the apartment. Castiel took his keys out again, slowly inspecting each one in turn. The key to his truck, his family’s home, the key to the Winchesters', his mailbox key that he never used, the one to his apartment. He took his time with each of them, holding them up and rolling them in his hands, and it got the response he was intending.

Dean groaned loudly and complained, “I’m growing old here, man!”

Castiel flipped the keys in turn once more, biting back a grin as he did so, before putting the wrong one in the lock. He made a show of trying to wiggle the door handle before fishing it back out and trying the real one. Dean huffed impatiently. He seemed a moment away from taking out his own key ring.

When the door clicked open, Dean crowded in close to Castiel’s back as they went inside. He wrapped one arm around Castiel’s middle and dragged their bodies against each other, back to chest. His nose immediately buried itself into Castiel’s skin as Dean kissed the sweat off his neck. Castiel canted his head to the side to give him more room, and let his eyes slip closed to concentrate on the smoothness of Dean’s lips.

“You still need to shower,” he reminded Dean, and Dean hummed against him.

“You comin’ with me?” Dean asked, voice low.

It wouldn’t be the first time they showered together. They did it most mornings that Castiel stayed over the Winchesters’, to conserve water and save on the heating bill. However, that didn’t always go to plan, and they sometimes ended up wasting water and electricity.

“Depends,” Castiel told him, turning around in his hold and fitting his arms around Dean’s middle. “Can I shave you?”

Dean wiggled his brows. “You’re a kinky son of a bitch, you know that?” It didn’t sound like a complaint.

Castiel pecked him on the lips and led him to the bathroom. He turned on the water in the shower and it heated up while they undressed. Dean put his oil-stained clothes in a pile on the floor beneath the sink before joining Castiel under the stream and shutting the glass door behind him.

Castiel stood under the stream, letting it flatten and soak his hair until droplets dripped down his bangs and into his eyes. They slipped down his nose and got into the seam of his lips. Dean huddled in close to share the water. It fell in rivulets across his broad shoulders and down his chest. It was such a simple thing, but Castiel didn’t think he’d ever get tired of the sight of water on Dean’s bare skin. It was like watching the rain fall in sheets onto an expansive plane, the tall grass bowing as the water weighed it down like Dean’s hair did now, the greenery of the earth darkening into something slightly brownish like the golden flecks in Dean’s eyes under the yellow light above them.

Dean reached over Castiel’s shoulder, stretching long and bumping their chests together, before coming back with the shampoo. He squirted some onto his palm and lathered it into his hair, white suds forming and dripping down the sides of his face. He turned the bottle over on top of Castiel’s head and emptied some out directly into his hair. He replaced the bottle before setting his fingers to work on Castiel’s scalp. The touch of his fingers through Castiel’s hair was soothing, like he was scratching an itch.

“You know, I was thinking. If you don’t have too much homework today, we could swing by the orphanage and pick up Claire and Jack. Take ‘em to that fancy country club pool of yours before they close it up for the season,” Dean was saying as he slicked Castiel’s hair up into a point between his palms, creating what he’d said was the Alfalfa hairdo.

The children did always enjoy the rare occasion that Castiel brought them to the club. Claire had even asked about it earlier in the summer, and he’d promised he would take them, but he never made good on it. In truth, he was avoiding having to bring Dean there along with them, fearful Michael would hear about it. This late in the season, the pool was usually void of many people, but he didn’t want to risk it.

“It’s a school day,” Castiel said, deflecting. “Maybe this weekend.”

Dean clicked his tongue, the sound echoing off the tiles. “Man, it’s some kind of sick form of torture to make kids go to school in this heat. The classrooms don’t even got A/C. Cheap-asses.”

“It’s only hot for a few weeks out of the school yea— _Dean_!” Castiel told him, sputtering at the end when Dean shoved him back under the stream to get the shampoo out of his hair. He skewed his eyes closed tightly to prevent any soap from getting into them.

When the last of the suds went down the drain, Castiel reached blindly behind him and felt around the built-in shelf for the shaving cream and Dean’s razor. Dean had begun to leave toiletries and other items at Castiel’s apartment. His spare toothbrush, travel-size bottles of hair gel and cologne, and he kept a few fresh changes of clothes on the shelf in Castiel’s closet. Castiel had similar items at Dean’s home. It was just easier than carrying everything back and forth.

The lower half of Dean’s face was covered in thick white, stray mists of water bouncing off his shoulders to create pock marks in the lather. Castiel pressed the razor gently to his jaw, just next to his ear, and put a trail through it. Inexplicably, shaving Dean was one of his favorite things to do. It required focus and patience, and Castiel took his time with even strokes and slow intervals. He liked dipping the razor under Dean’s full lips, running it along his firm jaw. He loved Dean’s hooded eyes gazing at him from down his nose and the slight upward curve of his mouth; and he loved pretending not to notice.

“And try not to knick me this time,” Dean griped.

Castiel rolled his eyes. “I’d been planning to. Thank you for reminding me of the correct methods of shaving.”

“I know you do it on purpose when you’re pissed at me.”

He was moving too much, and Castiel wasn’t actually trying to cut him. “Stop talking.”

Thankfully, Dean did what he was told, only shooting him a slightly sour expression that was quickly forgotten when he began drawing on the fogged glass with the tip of his finger. He formed a smiley face, which wasn’t much of a smile at all, but rather a bored-looking stick drawing with two vertical lines for eyes, a horizontal line for a mouth, and a tongue sticking out. He drew in drool dripping off the tongue and collecting in a small puddle underneath it. It wasn’t very elegant, but Castiel was just grateful Dean wasn’t drawing a penis again. It was never funny, no matter how endearing his proud grin and mischievous chuckle were.

There was still some stubble left when Castiel was finished due to Dean’s razor, but he knew that was the way Dean preferred it so he left it alone.

“Alright, am I clean enough yet, Mr. Muscle?”

“No.” Castiel dipped down and pressed his lips into Dean’s shoulder. He held them there for a few seconds, taking in the dewy scent coming off Dean’s body. “There’s still some dirt here,” he said against Dean’s skin. He moved to Dean’s clavicle. “And here.”

“Yeah? I think you missed a spot,” Dean told him before nudging Castiel’s head with nose. Castiel brought his face up to be level with Dean’s, and Dean tilted his head to kiss him. Dean’s hands settled at Castiel’s hips, and Castiel ran his palms up Dean’s chest, the falling water rippling through his fingers.

His thumb tripped over Dean’s nipple, and he swiped over it a few times until it pebbled beneath him. Dean made a low sound in his throat, and his hands slid from Castiel’s sides to his ass. He pulled their bodies against each other. Some of the hot water was seeping into their mouths as the kiss deepened, and the stream was fully beating down on Castiel’s face now, but he didn’t mind it so much.

Dean kissed away from his mouth, marking a trail down his neck, and Castiel tilted his head back, just on the other side of the spray. Dean grazed a sensitive patch on the base of Castiel’s neck, and the jolt it caused made Castiel’s spine shiver. Dean took initiative by sucking on that exact spot, mouthing and licking. Castiel sighed happily, his eyes blinking open at the ceiling but unable to focus on anything but the feeling. He thought he might have said Dean’s name, but his mouth was hanging open distractedly and began filling up with the shower water. And he thought he’d rather be the first human being to drown in the shower than let Dean stop what he was doing.

And then there was a pounding at the door, breaking the moment. They both jumped slightly, and Balthazar’s muffled voice came through, volume diminished by the water pressure so it was a little difficult to hear: “If you two lovebirds are quite done, I’d really love to take a piss.”

Dean grunted in defeat, his forehead falling against Castiel’s shoulder. In truth, Castiel hadn’t realized Balthazar was home. He must have been in his room, and it was a shame he’d taken that moment to make an appearance. Balthazar was Castiel’s friend, and generally a decent roommate, but it had been nice when he went home to England for the summer, and Castiel and Dean had the whole apartment to themselves in the first few weeks of their relationship. He’d gotten used to it, and having Balthazar suddenly present was a bit of a distraction. There was that, of course, and the snide remarks he and Dean hurled at each other most days just to be passive-aggressive for the sake of it. Castiel had learned to ignore them.

“We’ll be right out,” Castiel told him. When he was sure Balthazar was gone, he brought his hand up to cradle the back of Dean’s head and said, “Sorry.”

Dean looked up, disappointed but understanding. “It’s cool.”

They turned the shower off soon after that and wrapped themselves up in towels before heading to Castiel’s room to dry off. As they were dressing, Castiel noticed the spot Dean had been kissing on his neck was marked with a fresh bruise. He pressed into it slightly, and hissed a little when it ached, but he had to bite back a smile. It was his first hickey, and it was from Dean. He’d have to hide it at church on Sunday, of course, but he just loved knowing it was there.

The rest of the afternoon was spent sprawled out on Castiel’s bed, Castiel laying on his back while Dean spread out half on top of him, his arms around Castiel’s torso and his cheek pressed to his chest. Castiel perched his textbook on Dean’s shoulders and read through the chapters he’d been assigned. At one point, Dean fell into a shallow sleep, snoring softly into Castiel’s shirt. Castiel’s fingers carded through Dean’s hair, still damp from the shower. Dean’s toes were a little pruned on his bare feet sticking out of his jeans.

At another point, he whined about being bored, and tried to swat the textbook out of Castiel’s hands. When that didn’t work, he read the text aloud in an exaggerated, mocking, and frankly horrendous British accent. And he managed to distract Castiel for some time, the book laying open and face down on the bed as they made out.

Before Dean left for his shift at Harvelle’s, he cooked them dinner using whatever was in the fridge and cabinets—a makeshift carbonara with bacon, garlic powder, and a couple of eggs cracked and mixed into the pasta.

He kissed Castiel on his way out of the door, promising to see him the next day. And Castiel didn’t want him to leave, of course. He never did. But it didn’t trouble him as much as it used to. He knew Dean would make good on his promise, and the thought of the opposite didn’t cause his anxiety to spike needlessly.

Dean would be with him again soon. Castiel realized they’d settled into a kind of routine that way. They each had their own lives, and didn’t need to be with each other constantly. They would come together and break apart, like the waves on the shore, but another swell was bound return.

He was positive.

He was comfortable.

He thought this might be what it meant to be content.

///

The loading dock behind the hospital was empty at this time of night, except for a few dark ambulances that looked like they may need some resuscitation themselves over in the corner of the cracked lot.

Dean pulled the Impala to the steel steps that led up to the back door, where he usually met his contact. At least, the doctor guy had been his contact for the past half dozen times Dean had made the pick up in the last month. He’d never given Dean his name, and Dean never asked for it, but he assumed the guy was a doctor or maybe even someone who worked in the lab, if his white coat was anything to go by.

Dean hauled himself up the stairs next to the loading dock, hearing the tin rattle hollowly under his boots with every step. The railings on either side of him were biting cold in the chilly night when he brushed his finger against them. The air carried the iron scent of blood, and Dean tried to attribute that to the oncoming fall weather rather than any toxic used syringes discarded in the dumpsters or anything else unsanitary. But, now that he really knew what was going on at this hospital, he wasn’t putting anything past the staff.

He balled his fist and knocked three times on the gray metal door, and then stepped back, waiting. A couple of seconds later, the door swung open, and out walked the doctor, the tip of his nose flushed red in the cold, making him look like he had a pretty nasty cold when paired with his pallid skin.

“You’re late,” he said pointedly.

Dean wanted to roll his eyes, but refrained. He’d gotten a little held up at Harvelle’s, cleaning some dude’s puke off the bathroom floor. He’d tried to make Ash do it, but sticking his nose out from soldering his newest experiment to do any heavy lifting wasn’t exactly Ash’s style. “Yeah, well, I’m here now. You got the stuff or what?”

The doctor grumbled and reached over to the side of the door. He pulled back a medium sized cardboard box, its flaps crisscrossed together to close it like always. Dean wasn’t really sure who sifted through the contents inside and placed them in the smaller packages that Crowley and Meg sent out to the dealers, but that wasn’t Dean’s problem so he stayed out of it. He’d rather drive.

Besides, just driving the stuff from point A to point B was wreaking havoc on his conscience, which he tried really hard to forget about. He’d had at least three nightmares about Sam being in Jessica’s car with her when it burned up. In one of them, Cas had been in the backseat.

“Thanks,” Dean told him after taking the box from him, and the doctor only gave him an impatient look.

“Don’t make me wait again.” He stepped back inside and let the heavy door slam shut an inch away from Dean’s arms where he was cradling the slight heft of the box against his chest.

Dean pulled a face, annoyed that he wasn’t allowed to come back with a retort before getting shut down, but he guessed he’d just have to be faster next time. It didn’t matter, really. All that mattered was getting this box to the drop off point so he could get home and into bed—into the warmth, with Cas.

But at least this job would give him enough cash to take Cas out to a fancy restaurant for his birthday next week.

He slid back into the Impala, carelessly depositing the box on the passenger seat so he could rub the chill from his knuckles. He held his palms up to the heating vents for a few seconds, too, wincing against the pins and needles of the blood rushing back into them. The parking lot was still empty, like it always was, when he swung the car around and made for the chain link fence leading to the road.

Everything was quiet. There were a few yellow lights bleeding through the darkness from the bottom floor windows of the hospital, but other than that, Dean would venture to guess the entire damn town was asleep.

He turned up the radio as he passed onto the road. The classic rock station was playing some crap Jefferson Starship song that he’d never be caught dead listening to, and he clicked his tongue in annoyance before turning the knob on the radio to scrub for another station. It was mostly talking and static, and he thought he heard some choir song in the mix. His eyes were on the needle drifting back and forth on the radio, his one hand still on the knob and his other on the steering wheel.

There was suddenly a loud whirring sound from the speakers, and Dean jumped a little in surprise. He quickly flicked his wrist to make the noise stop, and that’s when it dawned on him that it wasn’t coming from the radio. It was still going on, despite the static overlaid on some indistinct hip-hop song. Red and blue lights circled behind him, flashing against the vinyl of the Impala's seats.

Dean froze, the car still wheeling down the vacant road, and continued to stare down at the radio. Briefly, his eyes flickered to the box next to him, and then, finally, he glanced up into his rearview mirror.

So much for hoping it was an ambulance.

The cop car was trailing after him, it’s siren now off but lights still blinding. Dean realized every muscle in his body had tensed, and he had the fleeting thought of trying to escape. Sure, a Dodge Charger could beat a classic Impala in the drag race easy, but he had enough confidence in his baby, not to mention his own driving abilities, to lose the cop. Maybe he could try to OJ this mother.

But that was probably a worse idea than keeping a box of black market opioids and prescription drugs out on his front seat for the entire world to see. Because even if he could outrun the cop car, then what? There was exactly one 1967 Impala in all of Lawrence, and they could track him down in less than a second flat.

He let out a shaking breath. Maybe he’d been speeding, which was normal for him thanks to his lead foot. Maybe he’d been driving erratically while tuning the radio and they thought he was drunk, which a breathalyzer test would clear up. Maybe it wasn’t a big deal. Maybe he wasn’t screwed.

Quickly, he pushed the box to the floor. It was still way too conspicuous, but at least it was a little more in the shadows than it had been on the seat. He pulled over to the grass on the side of the road and placed his hands at ten and two. He kept trying to breathe, kept telling himself he’d be fine. He closed his eyes, willing his heart rate to settle.

He opened his eyes, and the first thing he saw in his rearview was the silhouette of a woman with voluminous curly hair stepping out of the cop car.

Sergeant Billie.

Shit.

He was so screwed.

///

The first time Dean had been arrested, he’d been thirteen, and they’d been passing through Arkansas. It was for stealing a candy bar—and, yeah, okay, fine, some dude’s wallet—from the supermarket. His dad had left him to stew in jail all night before picking him up in the morning to learn his lesson. But Dean wasn’t exactly the brightest bulb in the box, so the lesson really didn’t take.

He was used to the whole shebang of being processed: emptying his pockets, getting his mugshot taken, dabbing his fingers in that sticky ink. It shouldn’t have bothered him. But this time, it did. Because, this time, he’d really fucked up.

He’d gotten too cocky, too complacent. He should have been smarter than putting a box of black market drugs on his front seat and not checking his surroundings for the cops. Yeah, he always knew getting arrested for smuggling was a possibility, but he never actually thought it would happen.

After being processed, some officer checked Dean into his luxury suite, equipped with steel bars and some guy in a business suit sleeping off the alcohol on the metal slab that jutted from the wall. There wasn’t anywhere else to sit besides the toilet—which, hell no—so Dean took to pacing for a while before sliding down the wall and bracing himself against the concrete so his ass wouldn’t touch the floor.

He told himself to calm down. That, any minute, an officer would come through and give him his phone call. And then he could go home.

He didn’t really know whom to call. John was usually his go-to in these situations, but John was god knows how many miles away. There was Sam, of course, but it wasn’t like Sam had any bail money, and Dean didn’t really think he could handle Sam knowing the truth about what he’d been doing. Ellen would rip him a new asshole, and Bobby would yell and find some passive way to punish Dean while being disappointed the entire time.

There was Cas. But, damn it, that would be giving Cas one more reason to realize how much better off he was without Dean. And it would inevitably lead to questions, and Dean wasn’t sure he was ready to come clean just yet. About any of it. Especially the whole Raphael thing, because that would just break Cas’ heart.

But, then again, Cas was a Novak, so he probably had the best chance of getting the cops to let Dean go.

The main door leading into the cells buzzed, and the drunk guy startled a little bit before rolling over and going back to sleep. An officer walked in, keys jangling in his hands. Dean looked up at him, knowing his decision on who to disappoint that night would have to be made. But then the guard opened up the cell and made Dean walk in front of him, out of the block, into the bullpen, and straight back to the interrogation room.

Dean was told to sit down at the table and stay quiet, and then he was left alone. Well, not really alone. There was a two-way mirror across from him that someone was probably standing behind, and there was a security camera in the top corner of the room with a red light to show it was recording.

Dean drummed his fingers on the table, trying to act cool and unfazed. Really, he was just trying to calm down. He could practically feel every nerve ending in his body.

A few minutes later, the door opened again, and Billie came through, a hefty file folder tucked under her arm.

Dean raised his brows at her, his fingers stilling. “What, no phone call?” he asked.

She sat down across from him, laying the folder on the table. “Why don’t you and I have a little chat first?”

He folded his arms on the table and leaned in, slapping on his best flirty smirk. “Ain’t that breaking one of my rights, sweetheart?” But, in truth, Dean was kind of relieved. His decision could be held off, at any rate.

She glared at him through her eyelashes, but didn’t respond. She just opened the thick folder and shuffled through the papers inside, most of them looking like reports, before sliding out a few black and white photographs. They were facing in the opposite direction from Dean, but he glanced down and saw they were candids of Crowley, Raphael, and the guy Dean referred to as Yellow Eyes.

He tried not to swallow hard, or give any reaction at all. She laid the photos out in a line and slid them halfway across the table, turning them his way. “Do you recognize any of these people?”

Dean made a show of looking at each photograph in turn, even picking up the one of Yellow Eyes. He pursed his lips, and shook his head. “Well— _that’s_ Raphael Novak. Everybody knows that. The other two? No idea. Why, who are they?”

Again, she didn’t answer, she just studied him for a long time, and asked, “Those narcotics you had in your front seat. Where’d you get them?”

There was really no way around that question. Except maybe ignorance. “Narcotics?” he said, scoffing. “That’s what was in the box?”

Her patience was obviously running thin. “Answer the question, Dean.”

He sat back, and decided to say, “The hospital. I pick up the box, drop it off somewhere.”

“Where?”

“It’s different every time.”

“Where were you going to drop it off tonight?”

He paused, not wanting to give away the location. He didn’t have any loyalty to Meg or Crowley, but he wasn’t a narc. Besides, he still needed this job. He stayed quiet.

Billie must have realized he wasn’t going to answer, so she sighed and switched gears. “Who gives you the drop off locations?”

“I get a text.” It wasn’t exactly a lie.

“So, we can go through your phone?”

“You got a warrant?” God, sometimes he loved having a pre-law brother who made Dean quiz him for tests with flashcards.

“I can get one easy.”

She was bluffing. Dean knew it by the way her eyes had narrowed. Her file on this was way too chunky, meaning she’d been working on it a long time, meaning Dean was the best lead she had. Plus, there was that way she’d treated Cas on his birthday last year—like she couldn’t touch him because he was Novak. Like somebody wouldn’t like it.

He bet somebody _really_ wouldn’t like it if she got close to exposing their secret.

He hummed. “You go do that.”

She held his stare for a long time, hoping he’d blink first. Then, she said, “Look. Dean. You’re small potatoes here. I’m not interested in you. I’m interested in who you’re working for. So, why don’t we make a deal? You give me some names—because, you _definitely_ have names—and you walk.”

God, it was tempting. If anything, it meant he’d never have to decide on whom to call.

But, just to be difficult, he said, “And if I don’t?”

“You were caught stealing from private property,” she said pointedly. “Michael Novak’s private property, to boot. He isn’t very pleased about that. Might even press charges. You think some cut-rate public attorney—who, let’s face it, probably works for the Novaks—can hack it against their team of lawyers? They’ll have you in prison for possession and larceny by breakfast tomorrow.”

Dean chewed on his bottom lip, thinking. Yeah, he’d definitely fucked up this time. No doubt in his mind, the Novaks would want to cover all this up. They’d hang him before the truth got out. Because Dean doubted Raphael had decided to go rogue. This was probably a family affair.

Shit, Cas had no idea.

And now he’d either have his boyfriend thrown into some hole for however many years or his family’s dirty laundry exposed. Dean really didn’t want to put him through either.

Billie raised a brow, knowing the scales hadn’t yet tipped one way or the other, but they were close. “So, we got a deal?”

What Dean really needed to do was stall. He said, “I think I’ll take that phone call now.”

Billie paused, her eyes flashing with anger. She stood up quickly, and pulled all her papers back into her file. “Fine,” she said, tone clipped. “But we’re not done here.”

Dean didn’t doubt it.

He followed her out to her desk in the bullpen and sat down in the wooden chair next to it. She picked up her desk phone and slammed it down in front of Dean, making it jump off the receiver.

Dean hesitated, staring down at the phone for a minute, something crawling on the inside of his gut.

He picked it, and dialed Cas’ number.

///

Not long after he made the call, Billie slapped some handcuffs on Dean and brought him back into the interrogation room. He sat down, and she undid one of his cuffs to lock him to the table. He jerked his hand up until the metal resistance bit into his wrist. It was kind of excessive.

"This really necessary?" he asked, raising his brows at her.

She returned the look. "Not talking any chances," she told him, and then walked out. He watched her go, and scoffed and shook his head once the door closed. It wasn't like he killed anybody.

He was on his own for a while after that, just watching the clock high up on the wall ticking the seconds away. His eyes kept wandering to the two-way mirror, wondering if anyone was watching him. The camera in the corner of the room wasn't on, so he guessed he had a little bit of privacy. Maybe he was alone, and maybe that meant a public defender was about to swoop in and tell him about some plea deal. That was just what he needed.

After what felt like an hour, the door clicked open again, and Dean reflexively sat up in his chair from the slump he found himself in. Billie was back, holding the door open by the knob. She stared at Dean hard, and then Cas walked in past her, the tails of his trench coat flaring out as he rounded the corner into the room.

It was so late that it was early by now. Dean had woken him up with his phone call. Cas’ hair was in every direction and his eyes were bruised with exhaustion, making him look kind of pale. Under his coat, he was wearing one of Dean’s t-shirts, one side of it half-tucked into his jeans, like he’d gotten dressed in a hurry. And in the dark. Even so, he always looked so strikingly handsome dressed casually, but maybe that was because Dean was so used to his usual collared shirt and tie.

It was a little easier to breathe now; and, at the same time, Dean's stomach did a weird little flop because he knew how much trouble he was in. It was written on Cas' face. He was pissed.

Dean forced a thin smile and lifted his cuffed hand up in a small, innocent wave.

Maybe he should tell Cas how handsome he looked . . .

Cas glowered.

. . . Maybe not.

"You have ten minutes. Knock if you want out before then. I'll be right outside," Billie said. She closed the door again, and Dean heard it lock automatically.

He swallowed, trying to keep the situation light in spite of Cas' mood. "So, uh—bet you never thought you'd have to pick your boyfriend up from jail, huh? You really know how to pick 'em, Cas."

"What the hell were you thinking?" Cas snipped. He came over to the table and slid into the chair across from Dean.

"You don't even know what I did."

Cas let out a dry laugh and sat back, his hands shrugging out to indicate their current setting. "Well, whatever it was, it can't have been your best idea. So, I ask again . . ."

Dean dropped his shoulders, his attitude with them. He had to come clean. Cas would find out the truth sooner or later—probably at Dean's trial right before he got sent off to prison for ten to twenty. He side-glanced up at the camera to make sure it still wasn’t recording.

"I've been hauling drugs to dealers around town," he admitted.

Cas went still, eyes flashing like that was the last thing he'd expected Dean to say. And then, "You what?"

A rock was forming in Dean throat. He tried to choke it down. "Yeah. For about a year now. Some guy named Crowley recruited me."

"Crowley?"

"Yeah." There'd been something like recognition in Cas' voice. Dean pulled his brows together. "Why, you know him?"

Cas didn't answer. "He recruited you to smuggle prescription drugs?"

"I mean, I didn't know what they were at first. But then I started picking up direct from the hospital, so I kinda figured it out . . ." Hang on. Cas' words finally processed. "How'd you know they were prescription?"

Cas held his eyes for a couple seconds, knowing he was caught but visibly trying to come up with an excuse. He must have not found one because his gaze flickered down to the table.

"You knew?"

"Yes."

No. No, that couldn't be right. Because Cas was different. Cas didn't have any part in this. Cas wasn't like his family.

Dean dropped his head, breathed out a laugh. "Son of a bitch." How the hell could Cas lie to him like that? Damn it, was Cas in on this? "You knew this whole time?"

"No." Cas' voice wasn't frantic or guilty. It was as cool and measured as ever. Dean looked up quickly. "Not about you. But, the drugs . . . Meg told me."

Dean hated that name. Still, it was good to know Cas wasn’t hip to all this. He sat back, brows lifting. "Meg?"

"Yes, which begs the question, why does she trust me more than you do?"

Maybe Dean deserved that. But Cas didn't have the full picture. Hell, maybe Meg didn't, either. They probably had no idea who was really behind all this.

Something clawed at Dean's gut. He had to tell Cas what was up. He should have told him months ago. Especially now. He wasn't about to stand for Cas trusting Meg more than him.

He ran his free hand down the back of his head, and braced himself for impact. "It goes deeper than Meg's family. It's—I saw Meg's dad talking to Raphael one day."

He chanced a look up at Cas, whose expression went neutral. "Raphael? Are you sure?"

"Yeah, it was him. Award-winning smile and all." Cas didn't laugh. Neither did Dean. He put his arm on the table and leaned into it. "It sounded like Meg's dad worked for him. Like Raphael's his boss."

He didn't really know how he expected Cas to react, but he guessed he was expecting _some_ kind of reaction. All Cas did was stare down at the table for a couple seconds, and then he stood up so quickly, his chair scraped loudly against the floor. Dean perked up and tilted his head to keep looking at him.

"Where are you going?"

"To get you out of here." He sounded like he was on some kind of holy mission. He didn't say a damn thing about Raphael, or about Dean not telling him any of this sooner. And maybe he was shoving down the emotion or compartmentalizing or whatever the hell he had to do—that was fine. But Dean didn't like the stone cold determination in his eyes.

"How?"

"I'll speak to Michael." Dean opened his mouth to object, but before he could, Cas spoke louder to drown him out. "He can talk to the police chief and have your charges dropped."

Dean shook his head. He hated that plan, and they sure as hell weren't doing it. They couldn't trust Michael. They couldn't trust anyone but each other and Sam. "How do you know he's not a part of all this?"

Cas didn't look like he was willing to let that stop him. He breathed in deeply to steady himself and clenched his fists. "I don't."

If that was meant to make Dean feel better, Cas really needed a different tactic.

"Okay. Even if he isn't, he ain't exactly in my fan club. He's probably A-OK with letting me rot here."

Cas knew he was right. He sucked in his lips and looked off to the side, shaking his head slightly. Dean wanted to know what the hell was going through his head.

"I have to try," he decided.

Dean tried to stand up, but he ended up being yanked down by the handcuff still locked onto the table. "Cas, come on. You do this, and that's it for you, man! He does you a favor, you're in his pocket forever."

"He's my brother."

"He's controlling your life!" Dean had wanted to say that for months. He didn't mean to say it like that. But it was out, and there was no putting it back in now. "And you just wanna hand over the reins? Cas, buddy, I'm begging you—."

" _Dean_!"

Dean clamped his mouth shut.

Cas breathed again, getting himself under control. He said, "Let me do this."

Dean didn't really know how to stop him. He was chained to a table. But, when Cas went to the door and knocked, Dean made one last attempt: "I can't let you take the fall for me."

He saw the straight line of Cas' shoulders slacken, watched his fists loosen. Every line of him appeared tired. Half looking over his shoulder, Cas said softly, "I've already fallen for you, Dean."

Dean wasn't really sure how he reacted. His mind blanked of everything but those words. But, after the door opened and Cas walked out, Dean realized his mouth was parted in a mix of wonder and remorse and fear.

The door closed, and he was alone again.

///

When the elevator doors slid open, Castiel marched directly for Michael's office across the floor. He didn't spare a glance towards Raphael's door, though he did feel his teeth ache with how tightly he was gritting them together when he passed it. The office was completely dead, which was a rare sight. In fact, Castiel thought it was one he’d never seen.

The sun had only been up for fifteen minutes, and it would still be an hour before anyone got in. But Michael would be there. He was always there.

Dean's words keep playing through his mind, overlapping and blurring together as they circled quickly around.

_I've been hauling drugs to dealers around town._

_I saw Meg's dad talking to Raphael one day._

_Bet you never thought you'd have to pick your boyfriend up from jail, huh?_

_For about a year now._

_He's controlling your life. And you just wanna hand over the reins?_

_I can't let you take the fall for me._

"Castiel," Hannah said as he approached. She sat up straighter behind her desk, looking surprised. "I didn't know you were coming in. You don't have an appointment with—Wait, he's on the—!"

Castiel threw the office door open with enough force that it slammed against the wall. Michael was standing next to his desk, looking out the window with the cloudless cool blue sky framing him, one hand in his pocket and the other one holding his desk phone to his ear. Its cord spiraled back towards the desk. He turned quickly, more irritated than aghast.

Hannah had jumped up from her desk and was hovering in the doorway acting for all the world like the sky was falling. "Sir, he just walked in. I—."

Castiel would probably feel bad about it later, but he grabbed the door by the wood and slammed it in her face. His eyes didn't leave Michael. He realized he was showing his teeth.

Michael blinked once, his gaze flickering in a way that showed his attention had shifted. "Yes—Yes. Excuse me, but I'll have to call you back." He walked closer to his desk and dropped the phone lightly back onto the receiver.

Castiel glared at the phone like it committed some offense, and he wanted to tell Michael not to bother putting it down. He'd need it again in a moment.

"Brother. Is something on your mind?"

"Call the chief of police," Castiel demanded, stomping closer to the desk.

Michael stared at him evenly, his head turning just ever so slightly in question, as if to say, _now why would I do that_?

"Dean Winchester has been arrested."

"Yes, I'm aware of that."

Castiel faltered. He hadn't expected Michael to have that information already, but perhaps he should have. "What? How?"

Rolling his eyes, Michael unbuttoned his suit jacket and sat in his chair. He reached for a file folder on his desk and opened it up, fountain pen in hand like he couldn't give this situation the time of day without multitasking. "The prescriptions he was smuggling came from my lab, Castiel. It seems you were correct in thinking the hospital was being stolen from. I had the police keep a detail on it to apprehend any suspects, which they did. Last night. Thanks to you." He glanced up, half smiling, all teeth. "Good work."

Ice skated its way tantalizingly slow down Castiel's spine. He wanted to shake his head, to back away. He never meant for this. He never meant for Dean to get hurt. But he hadn't known. Dean hadn't told him.

It felt like a poor excuse.

He lifted his chin to look up again, deciding to power through. "You have to get him released." He was feeling less authoritative by the second, and it was showing in his voice.

Michael appeared nonplussed and mostly unimpressed. "Why? He stole from me. He stole from sick patients."

It wasn't that black and white. Dean was innocent. Perhaps not completely, but there were bigger things to focus on here. They should have gone after the people Dean was working for—like Crowley or Azazel, like the person inside the lab handing off the drugs. Like Raphael.

Briefly, Castiel considered telling Michael about Raphael's involvement. Then, he remembered Dean's words. He didn't know if he could trust Michael. He wanted to believe Michael had nothing to do with this, but he couldn't be sure. And he didn't know how to vocalize any of his thoughts.

"He didn't know." His voice was small.

The sound of Michael's pen on the paper was audible. "He knew he was breaking the law. This is what happens to people who break the law. He's a criminal." If Castiel didn't know better, he'd say Michael sounded sympathetic. His head drooped down and to the side. He let his eyes slip closed, feeling defeated, hapless.

Why hadn't Dean told him sooner? They could have prevented this together.

He didn't know what else to say besides, "Please." He hated to grovel, but this was for the Winchesters. He'd grovel on behalf of Sam and Dean.

Michael was quiet for a long time, and Castiel could feel his gaze on his skin. He didn't look up to meet it, afraid that Michael might see something in him.

The leather of the desk chair creaked when Michael leaned back. "If I do this for you," he said, and Castiel's neck snapped up, more out of utter shock than anything, "what can I expect in return?"

Maybe Castiel should have expected that, too. In fact, a part of him had. It wasn't as if he thought Michael would help Dean out of the kindness of his heart. Castiel was willing to bargain. He just didn't know if he was holding any cards.

Steadying himself, he asked, "What do you want?"

Michael set his pen down next to his paper. "It's not what I want. It's what's best for you."

Castiel didn't know what that was, but he was fairly certain Michael was about to tell him. "I don't under—."

"I want you to cut ties with the Winchester boy," Michael said, putting it bluntly.

Castiel's heart plummeted.

"If this debacle doesn't make you understand why, I don't know what will. As much as I abhor saying I told you so . . ."

Castiel never expected Michael to be so petty.

And, strangely, there was a voice in his head telling him that Michael was only looking out for him. Dean had lied to him, after all. Dean knowingly withheld information pertinent to Castiel's life and family. But that didn't warrant cutting him out of his life, and it certainly needn't be punishable by jail time. Castiel wasn't that dramatic.

Because Castiel loved him—fully, completely, with all his heart, and he knew it wouldn't just shatter without Dean in his life. It would disintegrate, rot and disappear as though it had never been there at all.

But he couldn't tell Michael that, and he didn't know what to say to make him understand.

"He's my friend."

Michael sighed heavily through his nose, his expression unfathomable. "Castiel," he said. "We both know that isn't true."

Castiel's gut lurched. Michael knew. He knew about his relationship with Dean—or, at least, he knew Castiel's feelings. Castiel didn't know how, but it didn't matter. Michael knew.

"If you truly care for this boy, I will make the call and ask for his crimes to be forgotten." He hovered his hand over the phone, but didn't pick it up. Castiel licked his lips nervously, his eyes fixed on the space between Michael's palm and the plastic. He'd been so close.

"What's the alternative? He will go to trial. He will be found guilty. He will go to prison. And what about that brother of his? The future lawyer?"

Castiel seethed at the mention of Sam. He shouldn't even be part of the discussion. Sam Winchester must be protected, no matter the cost.

Michael continued, "He has a position at our top firm, correct? And he's doing well there? His future is bright, but this could change that. Without his brother, he'll need to support himself. He would need to find another job, or multiple, to pay for his school supplies, his livelihood. That would distract him, cause him to cut his hours at the firm. We can't keep on an employee who isn't dedicated to the company."

That wasn't fair. Distantly, Castiel was already aware of this. Dean's absence would destroy Sam in more ways than one. But it wasn't fair. "He's deserving."

"It has nothing to do with deserving. Of course, I'm sympathetic to the situation, Castiel, but we won't be able to put him in front of the needs of Evangelist. This community depends on us, so every facet needs to run smoothly. You have to understand that. It's important you do."

It was a clear threat: fall in line or the Winchesters' lives will be leveled.

Castiel couldn't be responsible for that.

But to be without Dean . . . It was unthinkable. Everything in Castiel ached to be wherever Dean was. He wanted to be with him. And, yes, he knew their relationship wasn't perfect. It was complicated and messy and destined to end in failure, but it was the closest Castiel ever came to feeling like he belonged somewhere, to someone.

Without Dean, he would ache, always.

But his happiness didn't matter. Dean's did. He and Sam would have each other; that's all that mattered.

Eventually, Castiel would only be a memory to them.

"Make the call," he decided.

Michael didn't question it, didn't give him the opportunity to change his mind, didn't praise him for the choice. He picked up his phone delicately between two fingers and held it to his ear. He pushed one button and said, "Hannah, get the chief of police on the line."

He placed the phone back down.

And Castiel was grateful.

"Thank you," he said, doing all he could to keep the thickness out of his voice. He would not show emotion. He would stand up straight and keep steady. He would be like steel—from now on.

"There's one more thing I want you to do, Castiel," Michael told him. Castiel felt like he'd already done enough. But he didn’t have anything else to lose.

"What is it?"

"After I get off the phone, I'm going to make another call," Michael told him. "Go home. You should pack an overnight bag. I’ll arrange for a car to pick you up this afternoon."

Castiel squinted, not sure where he could possibly be going. He didn’t know how long he would be missing classes, either. At this point, did it matter?

Michael would take care of all of it.

"I'm not the only one you need to repent to."

///

Dean was back in the holding cell, watching the same bum from before snoozing on the floor in the corner, his head propped up by the wall. When the buzzer to the door sounded, the bum stirred a little, but didn’t wake up. Dean turned his head to find Billie sweeping in front of the cell. She looked pissed.

“What’s’a matter? They run out of leather moto jackets?”

Billie took out her keys and scowled. “You’re free to go.”

Dean blinked. He probably should have been happy or grateful, but his first thought was, _fuck, Cas_. He wondered what the hell kind of deal Cas had to make to get him walking the streets again.

“The hospital isn’t pressing charges.” She fit the key in the lock and swung the door open, standing aside to let him through.

Dean stood up from the bench, collecting his jacket as he did so, and walked past her out of the cell. He glanced at her tentatively, not fully convinced he was free until she shut the cell door and locked it again. He followed her to the door as she explained, “Your bother’s here to pick you up. He’s already been given your car from the impound lot.”

Again, Dean thought, _Fuck_.

He’d really been hoping that Sam wouldn’t find out about any of this. But, the door buzzed again to let him and Billie into the bullpen of the precinct, and Sam was there, standing next to the reception desk and glowering at Dean.

Dean ducked his head and went to collect his personal effects from the clerk.

“You better hope you don’t see me again, Winchester, or it’s your funeral,” Billie said as he shoved his phone and wallet into his pocket.

“Yeah, yeah.”

Inevitably, he walked up to Sam and cleared his throat, trying to act natural. “Hey.”

Sam adjusted his stance, and somehow made himself taller.

“They give you the car keys?”

After another menacing glare, Sam took the keys out of his jeans and held them up, letting them dangle. Dean snatched them before Sam could jerk them away again, and he walked right out of the precinct and into the fresh air of downtown Lawrence. The sun was shining and there was a car honking loudly in order to get the one in front of it to make a right on red.

The Impala was parked across the street, and Dean had never been happier to see anything in his life. He was sure she’d be taken in as evidence or something. He crossed towards her, Sam in tow.

Dean tensed his shoulders as he walked, going as quickly as he could to put some space between himself and his brother. Now that they were on the street, he could practically feel the pressure building up in Sam to the point of combustion.

As if on cue, Sam rushed around to the other side of the car to catch Dean’s gaze and said, “You wanna tell me what the fuck happened, Dean?”

Dean hated the way Sam was looking at him, like he was a goddamn disappointment, like how John looked at him sometimes. He pursed his lips and shook his head. “Not really.” Forcing a tight, sly smile, he shoved the key into the door to unlock it.

That didn’t deter Sam. “Oh, really? Because they told me you got arrested for transporting drugs with the intent to sell them,” he recited like it was from a fucking textbook, both arms spreading out wide on either side of him to show he was ready to go ten rounds.

Dean sighed. “I wasn’t gonna sell them. I was just delivering them.” The door opened with a creak and he slid into the driver’s side. He heard Sam bark out a derisive laugh before ripping his door open, getting in, and slamming it closed again.

“You really think that makes it better?” He was doing that thing he did when he was really mad and thought Dean was the lowest form of idiot. He was smiling.

Dean groaned. He was exhausted, and he just wanted to get home and make sure Cas was okay. “Sam, I just slept next to a toilet all night, okay? I’m not in the mood.”

Sam oriented his body to face Dean. “Yeah, and I just had to pick my brother up from jail for drug trafficking, so guess what kinda mood I’m in.”

“You’re acting like I’ve never been arrested before!”

Sam gaped for a second, and then, “This isn’t stealing a six-pack from a bodega, Dean! It’s an A-1 Felony!” His voice was too loud in the confined space.

“Oh, okay, Mr. Lawyer.”

Sam gave a loud sigh and lifted his hands, only for them to fall back to his lap as his body sagged. “Dean,” he said, obviously going for patience, “just tell me what’s going on. How the hell did you get wrapped up in something like this?”

“We needed the money, okay?” Dean burst out in a yell, silencing Sam. “We needed the money. This gig paid good.”

Sam blinked at him for a long time, and Dean glared at him, challenging him to ask any more questions. Of course, Sam would meet that challenge. “I offered like, a thousand times to get a job. And you said no. You said we were fine.”

“We were fine. We _are_ fine,” Dean shot back. “Because of this. And, yeah, of course, I told you not to get a job. You should be focusing on school. You’re a kid.”

“So are you,” Sam said, shaking his head like he was astounded. Dean clamped his jaw shut. He’d been a lot of things in his life. A kid was never one of them.

Sam continued, “We’re in this together. So why the hell should you have to shoulder all the responsibility?”

He meant well. Dean knew he did. Sam was only trying to help. But, as always, he didn’t understand. “Because that’s my job,” Dean told him bitingly. He wished to god it wasn’t. He wished he could be a normal guy, to go to school, to dick around, to get in trouble for stupid crap, to leave paying the bills up to mommy and daddy. That wasn’t the straw he drew in life.

Sam looked down, blinking rapidly. He stayed quiet for a few long moments, and then swallowed thickly and asked, “Why didn’t you tell me, Dean?”

It was like he couldn’t even look at Dean.

Dean faced forward. He put the keys in the ignition and turned on the car. “Because that’s my job, Sammy,” he said again, wearier this time. Sam didn’t answer. He knew the argument wasn’t over, but he was happy to make it a problem for the future. Sam was taken care of for the moment. The next problem he had to deal with was Cas.

Dean pulled the car away from the curb and drove home.

///

Six days went by. Dean didn’t really think he was the type of guy to wring his hands and sit up all night by the phone waiting for the boy he loved to call him like some kind of high school girl. But it had been six days and Cas hadn’t called. He hadn’t picked up whenever Dean called him, he didn’t text back—hell, he didn’t even read the texts Dean sent. Sam hadn’t seen Cas at the library in a few days, either; and, when he called Jody and Donna, they said Michael’s assistant had told them that Cas wouldn’t be able to stop in that week. Balthazar had texted Dean back once, but it was some cagey reply about Cas spending some time with his siblings, and then nothing since. Dean was so desperate, he was thinking about calling Meg.

Cas had even missed his birthday. His twenty-first birthday. The anniversary of the day they met. Dean was supposed to take him out to dinner and buy him his first legal drink, and instead he spent it holed up in his room with a bottle of Jack, hoping beyond hope that Cas would call him and leaving about half a dozen drunken messages on Cas’ phone.

Yesterday, the calls went straight to voicemail, which meant Cas’ phone was off. And the mailbox was full so Dean couldn’t even leave another message.

And then, as of that morning, an automated voice told Dean the line had been disconnected. It told him that on each of the nine out of nine times he’d called it, and every time the bundle of nerves in his stomach tightened more, and he wanted to throw up. That sensation was the only real thing in the world.

Dean tried to keep himself busy. He worked on cars, washed and tuned up the Impala at least twice, picked up an extra shift at Harvelle’s and actually made it a point not to serve anyone underage—because all he needed was to get tossed in jail again. He cooked dinner for Sam, made him lunch. He watched movies and TV shows and listened to music. And none of it was a good enough distraction.

His mind kept going back to Cas.

Dean felt as if he was going through life underwater, just being carried by the current.

In the afternoon, he stopped by Cas’ apartment around the time he knew classes were done for the day. He rang the buzzer in short bursts, and then held it down so it made one continuous humming noise like a heart monitor gone flat. Cas didn’t answer. Dean tried punching in the door code to let himself into the building, but the light stayed a steady red instead of blinking green. He pulled on the door anyway, just in case the light was malfunctioning. It was locked. Cursing under his breath, he tried the code again—and again. And he tried the side door, too.

And now he was worried.

He told himself he was being stupid. Cas wouldn’t just disappear on him. He’d call. Eventually, he’d call Dean back. He was fine. Everything was fine. They were fine.

Dean considered standing there in the doorway until Cas got home, no matter how long it took. Even if it took all night. It wasn’t like Dean had been sleeping much, anyway.

But he didn’t have to do that. They were fine. Cas was okay. He totally wasn’t getting his ass handed to him by his brothers.

 _Shit_. This was all Dean’s fault. If he hadn’t been so sloppy, so stupid . . .

When he got home, Sam wasn’t there, and the days were just short enough now that the sun had westered its way over the horizon. Dean didn’t know what to do with himself. He was too pent up to eat, and he couldn’t focus on anything. He thought, maybe, he should try swinging by the Novaks’ family house, or maybe Evangelist. He’d probably get shut down in the lobby, but he could always refuse to leave until he talked to one of the Novaks, preferably Cas. That would probably result in him getting arrested again, and so would trespassing on private property in a gated fucking community.

He took his phone out of his pocket and thumbed at Cas’ name again, then held it to his ear. “We’re sorry. This line is no longer in service. Goodbye.” _Crap_.

He didn’t know if he could go another day like this.

He shrugged off his jacket and went to the bathroom to splash some water on his face. It was cool, and woke him up a little, but it did nothing to stop the buzzing under his skin, the twitching in his fingers. He clutched the basin and stared at himself in the mirror. There were dark circles under his eyes, and his skin was pallid in the fluorescent light. He watched his own throat bob as he swallowed hard.

 _I’ve already fallen for you, Dean_.

He punched his reflection, causing the mirror to splinter and shard. Jagged cracks shot out from the center. He drew his knuckles back. There were bits of glass stuck in his skin, blood oozing out around them. He stretched out his hand, his jaw tensing against the stiff pain the movement caused.

He was so wrapped up in it that it took him a second to realize someone was knocking at the front door. His heart seized up, and he rushed instantly to the living room. He didn’t bother looking through the peephole before ripping the door open.

And then all the oxygen in him burst out of his lungs like he’d been kicked. He tightened his grip around the doorknob to keep himself from trembling. Because there was Cas—a little tired, his eyes a little glassy and far away, but alive and unhurt and _fine_. Dean didn’t know whether he wanted to punch him or kiss him.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he breathed out, feeling like someone had just tossed him a life vest and he could stop treading water. He did his best not to double over and put his hands on his knees.

“Dean.”

Dean thought he could cry. A grin slapped its way to his cheeks, and he grabbed Cas by the lapels of his trench coat and pulled him inside. He looked over Cas’ shoulder as he did, muttering, “get in here,” to make sure no one else was in the stairwell threatening to take him away again.

He kept one hand on Cas, not wanting to let go, as he closed the door and locked it for good measure. And then he whipped back around and pulled Cas into a hard kiss. And, fuck, it felt so good. It was really him. He was home. He was fine.

He felt Cas’ fingers come up and graze the sides of Dean’s neck, touch ghosting over the skin like he didn’t know if he was allowed to make contact. But he kissed back frenziedly, and Dean couldn’t tell if he was trying to make up for lost time or trying to fit a thousand future kisses into one.

And then he pulled away with a sharp inhale, his hands moving down to rest his palms flat on Dean’s chest. Dean lifted his hands and wrapped them around Cas’ wrists. He touched his forehead to Cas’ and closed his eyes.

“Where the hell have you been?” His voice sounded rough to his own ears. His eyes were suddenly stinging with exhaustion, and he felt like he could sleep for a day straight.

Cas let out the breath he’d been holding in, and it came out choppy. “There’s, um—there’s a Catholic retreat center just outside of town.”

Dean didn’t understand. “You been prayin’ for my damned soul, Cas?” he joked, voice low.

Cas slipped one hand out of Dean’s hold and touched his fingertips to Dean’s bruised and scraped knuckles. Dean hissed at the contact.

“You’re hurt.”

“I’m fine.”

He leaned back in to peck Cas’ lips, and that time Cas stilled. Something was wrong. Dean blinked his eyes open and leaned back to get his first good look at Cas. Cas looked back, but it was different than usual. There was barely any recognition in his eyes, like he was staring right through Dean.

Dean’s stomach turned, and the words _Catholic retreat center_ sunk in. That weightless, drifting feeling swept over him again. “Cas? What did they do to you?”

Cas didn’t answer. He let his hands slide out of Dean’s hold and fall to his sides in fists. He stood up straighter, leveled his chin. His whole body seemed to go taut. Dean looked him up and down, lips parted but he didn’t know what to say to make Cas stop whatever the hell he was doing.

“You have to stop trying to contact me, Dean,” Cas told him, toneless.

Dean rattled his head, trying to shake himself awake. Because this had to be some kind of horrible dream. “You got my messages?”

“I didn’t listen to them,” Cas answered. “I can’t anymore. That number’s been disconnected. Evangelist gave me a company phone.”

What the hell did that mean? Was Michael trying to track Cas’ calls now? “Oh . . . _kay_ ,” Dean said, stretching out the word. “Okay. Great. Just, uh—give me that number. Hang on.” He pulled his phone out of his jeans, going to his contact list to add a new entry.

“I can’t give you the number,” Cas said, and his tone was choked even though he tried to keep all emotion from it.

Dean lifted his gaze to him. Cas’ mouth was in a hard line. Dean felt his heart sulking way too far back from his ribcage. He tried to laugh it off. “Why, you don’t got it memorized yet?”

Cas stared at him— _past him_ —blankly.

“Cas?” His phony light-hearted grin was fading. He couldn’t stop it. Nausea snaked through his lower stomach. He was officially freaking out.

Cas blinked. Once. “I shouldn’t be here. I should go.”

He turned back to the door, and Dean’s insides lurched so violently, it made him spring forward and grab Cas by the arm. He dropped his phone in the process, and didn’t really give a shit. “No, hey! Look at me!” He pulled Cas back around, and Cas’ body moved like a ragdoll, and his eyes were fixed on the floor. “Don’t do that. Don’t go all robot on me! Talk to me, man!”

He wanted to say he got it, Cas was pissed at him. He shouldn’t have lied to him. He shouldn’t have dragged him into this. He was sorry, or whatever he needed to be. He wanted to say he was scared and he wanted Cas to stop whatever he was doing and come to bed and they could work through their crap in the morning.

“You gotta talk to me.”

“Dean, I _can’t_.”

For the first time, Dean realized that Cas was afraid, too.

Dean’s grip on him slackened, and Cas pulled away. But instead of heading out the door, he walked further into the room, showing Dean his back. He lifted his head to look at the ceiling, staring up as if in silent prayer. Dean watched him closely—the firm line of his shoulders, the tension which he carried himself with.

And all he could think was, _No, not like this, not tonight_.

“We can’t see each other anymore,” Cas told him, and he wasn’t even man enough to say it to Dean’s face. “Our . . . companionship—it’s not appropriate.”

Dean scoffed, anger flaring hot inside him. “Appropriate?” he echoed, the word twisting the air into something crooked around it. He didn’t know if that or _companionship_ offended him more. “What, you go off to bible camp and they scare you straight?”

“It’s not that.” Cas’ head half-turned, so Dean could see the beginnings of his profile. His jaw was held rigid. “We both understood it would come to this eventually. I believe it’s best if we cut ties now before things get out of hand.”

And Dean just wanted to laugh. He shouted instead. “I think it’s a little late for _out of hand_!”

Cas spun around, staring at Dean hard, like he was the one who had the right to be angry. Without saying anything, he started for the door again, and ripped it open. Dean rushed up behind him and slammed it closed with the flat of his palm against the wood before Cas could escape.

“Dean, let me go,” Cas said, voice authoritative and uncompromising. Dean kept all his weight on the door to combat the resistance as Cas pulled on the knob.

“No. This ain’t you talkin’, Cas. Tell me what the fuck happened.”

Cas bristled, spun around. Their chests were only inches apart, and Dean put up his other arm like a wall to box Cas in.

“I have to go, Dean. It was a risk coming here in the first place.”

“What _risk_? Damn it, you’re not making any—!”

“A risk! To you! To Sam!” Cas shouted over him, and Dean shut up at the sound of Sam’s name. “To myself.”

Dean shook his head slowly. He wasn’t ready to give this up. He would never be ready. “What’s the problem, Cas? What, Michael doesn’t like you hanging around here? So what! You’re a big boy.”

“I could lose _everything_ ,” Cas said, simmering. “My home. My future. My schooling.”

“You don’t even _like_ what you’re in school for! Hell, you don’t even like your family!” He wanted to pound his hands against the wood, hoping that it would wake Cas the hell up once and for all. Because is that really what it all came down to? Money? Was that really what Dean was losing out to? “And you don’t wanna work for your family’s company! So what if Michael cuts you off? You can come live here—with me and Sammy. We’ll figure it out!”

“There is _nothing_ to figure out,” Cas maintained, voice rising to match Dean’s. “They won’t allow it, Dean! Your _father_ won’t allow it, either! My family will find me. You will go back to jail. Your brother will never have a career. Is that what you want?”

No, it wasn’t. But he wanted Cas, too.

He didn’t know what to do.

He swallowed. “Then we leave.” He picked himself up from the door, trusting that Cas wouldn’t make a break for it. Cas looked too shell-shocked to move an inch.

“What?”

Dean didn’t really know what he was saying. He didn’t really believe they could do it, but maybe a plan would formulate if he kept talking. Maybe he could convince the both of them. “We go—pack up and leave. Tonight. You, me, and Sam. We start over somewhere else. Somewhere the Novaks don’t have any power.”

After a long time, Cas let out a breath and looked away. “You really think Sam would give up his life here? You really want to pull him away?”

Dean shrugged. “Sam was gonna leave Lawrence anyway. He’s going to California in a few years. Why not now? He’s a smart kid. He could go to a different school out there. We’ll just go with him.”

“With what money? He has a scholarship here.”

“We’ll figure it out.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Because we _will_!”

“Dean.”

He held Cas’ gaze, both of them challenging the other to blink first. In the end, Cas did.

“Dean,” he said again, this time more calmly. He was giving up. “Think rationally. Our lives are here. Our families. We can’t leave.”

Dean paused. He steeled his jaw, looked to the side. He nodded. Cas was right, but Dean wasn’t about to just roll over and say uncle. He was willing to fight for them. He thought Cas had been, too.

“Cas,” he whispered. He licked his lips, mustering his courage. “I—.”

If he could just say it. Maybe if he just said it, it would change Cas’ mind. Maybe Cas wouldn’t disappear on him. Maybe he’d stay.

Cas waited, his breath catching. Something on his face was begging Dean not to try.

“I’m sorry it had to end like this,” he said after a few seconds, like this was some business transaction. He turned again and put his hand on the doorknob.

“I love you, okay?”

The words punched themselves out of Dean in a kneejerk reaction, a fit of panic to keep Cas from leaving. He got what he wanted. Cas froze again.

Dean closed his eyes, held his breath. He took a step closer, and then another. It was easier to say it with Cas not looking at him.

“I love you. So _damn_ much.” He held one finger up like he was about to lecture Cas, but whatever rage spurring him on fizzled out, and he dropped his arm back to his side. “If you’re telling me you don’t love me back—then walk out the door, Cas. I won’t stop ya. But if you want—.”

“It doesn’t matter what I want.” Cas looked around at him. “And it doesn’t matter what you want, either.”

That was it, huh? Dean loved him. And it didn’t matter.

He felt his lips twist, his expression contort. Something dark and ugly clawed its way out of his chest. He ran his hand over his mouth, nodded.

“So, you’re just giving up?” He shook his head, trying so hard to be disgusted instead of brokenhearted. He bared his teeth. “I mean that little to you?”

Cas stood up from the door and charged closer to Dean, fury and frustration flashing on his features. "I'm doing this _for_ you! For Sam."

"Bullshit," Dean shot back. He didn't want to hear that excuse anymore, because that's all it was. An excuse. "You're doing this for you. And for your family. Because that's what it's all about, right? Preserving the good Novak name?" His voice grew louder and louder until he was shouting so much his throat hurt. "So you can pretend that it's all for the greater good! Because if everyone else thinks it, so can you! So you don't have to deal with the fact that you're just a bunch of selfish, one-percent douchebags who are only looking out for themselves! So don't blame it on me and Sam because you're too scared to make your own choices! I mean, Jesus, Cas—think about it! Think for yourself for once in your goddamn life!"

Cas expression was stony, jaw jutting out and lips tight and nostrils flaring. And he tried to keep his eyes just as hard, but there was just a little bit of doubt in them. It wasn't nearly enough.

"They don't care about the town, you stupid son of a bitch. They don't even care about you!" Dean kept on, because he needed it to sink into Cas' thick fucking skull. "All they care about is the bottom line. So forget what they want, Cas! Forget it. Forget what Michael wants. Hell, forget what I want! What do _you_ want?"

Dean waited, holding his breath, begging for the answer to be _you_.

For a long time, Cas just stared at him. Dean thought he'd gotten pretty good at determining what Cas was thinking and feeling. He'd learned how to pick out the micro-expressions, the slight facial tics, the way he carried himself. But now he was totally unreadable, and Dean had no idea whether he was thinking it over or if he was burying it under an avalanche of denial.

"They," he said, finally. It was the last thing Dean expected to hear, so much so that his mind couldn't quite process the meaning.

"What?"

Cas stepped up close into his personal space, but it wasn't like it usually was. There was no warmth or comfort in it. Dean wanted to recoil and play dead.

"You keep saying _they_ ," Cas said slowly, voice like gravel. He tipped his head to the side, eyes boring into Dean like he'd never met him before. "Like I'm not one of them."

Dean went cold.

Cas wasn't one of them. Dean never saw him as one, not really.

Maybe that was his mistake.

"Are you?"

He still didn't believe it, and he was pretty sure Cas didn't either, even when he kept staring unblinkingly forward.

Dean wanted him to say no so badly. He needed Cas to snap out of it.

Cas stayed quiet. Dean felt something stinging in his eyes, so he wheeled around before Cas could see it. He told himself he wouldn't cry. He wouldn't.

"Fine," he said, pretty sure Cas could hear the thickness in his voice. "If that's your decision, fine. But you walk out that door, that's it. We're done. No changing your mind later. If that's what you wanna choose—."

The front door slammed shut.

It caused a visceral reaction. Dean's knees buckled, and he practically doubled over, winded. Something that felt and sounded like a sob burst past his lips.

He guessed he'd asked Cas to make his own choices.

He just didn't choose Dean.


	15. Chapter 15

“Dean, get your butt out of bed, or I’m gonna drag you out! Don’t think I won’t do it!”

The threat would have been funny if Dean were in the mood—because Charlie was like, ninety pounds and three feet tall, and there was no way she was dragging him anywhere. But Dean wasn’t in the mood. The only thing he was in the mood for was lighting up another joint and washing it down with whiskey. But he was all out of whiskey. And he didn’t have any weed, which was frankly ridiculous. He smuggled drugs. He knew drug dealers. How had his weed supply run out?

“Leave me alone,” he gritted out, and buried his face into his pillow to block out the light. His head was pounding. Probably because he was out of alcohol; and the only thing that really cures a hangover is to keep drinking. His face was pounding, too. Probably because of that fight he got into at the bar last night.

“Dude,” Charlie huffed. He couldn’t see her, and really didn’t care to look, but he imagined her hands were on her hips. “It’s been a month. You have to cool it.”

Annoyance flared up in him, and he rolled over to glare at her, which was a mistake because his stomach sloshed. But he’d been right, at least. Her hands were on her hips. “I’m cool,” he told her.

She raised her eyebrows and slanted her head to the side. “You’re spiraling. This is what spiraling looks like.”

Dean picked up the empty bottle next to his bed. There was still a shallow film of amber liquid in one of the corners. Maybe he could get that out somehow.

“We’re worried.”

Dean didn’t answer. He continued to contemplate how to get the whiskey out. Every drop mattered. He pretended he wasn’t listening, but really he’d heard every word she said. He’d heard it when Sam gave him the same speech every night for the last couple of weeks, too. He knew they were right, logically. He just really didn’t care.

In fact, he really didn’t care about much these days. He just kind of went through the motions: work, paying the bills, cooking Sam’s dinner, sleeping, rinse and repeat. But, every time he got behind the wheel of his car, he thought about driving straight out of town. Going—well, anywhere. Didn’t matter. Maybe Sam would even want to move to California early, after all.

Leaving was probably the only thing he actually did care about anymore.

Charlie sighed, and dropped down to sit on the corner of his bed. “I don’t understand why you don’t just go win him back.”

Dean dropped the bottle to his lap, suddenly angry. He shot her a dead-eyed look. What, did she think he hadn’t thought about that? But there was nothing to win back. Cas had made up his mind. If it even was Cas anymore . . .

Dean hadn’t recognized the guy who had walked out on him three and a half weeks ago.

Charlie threw her hands up in surrender. “Okay, fair enough,” she acquiesced. “Then what about getting back out there?”

Dean scoffed. Not this again. He was sick of her trying to set him up. He’d already been in one relationship, and look how that ended.

“Hell, no.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m not talking about dating! Maybe just a hook up. Just like—getting out of your apartment. For something other than booze. Maybe taking a shower . . . Because, no offense, you kinda reek.”

He groaned and fell back against his pillow.

“Just a friendly suggestion.”

He didn’t say anything, but when had that ever stopped Charlie?

“Hey, what about that dating app we signed you up for forever ago? Maybe there’s someone on there who can help you get your mind off—.”

He grunted, not wanting to hear Cas’ name.

“ _Things_ ,” she quickly amended.

He sighed up at his ceiling, his anger dwindling, taking away all his energy and fight. He was just tired. Maybe she was right. Maybe he needed to clean up and go have sex with somebody. Maybe that would make him feel like his old self—before Cas. Before everything.

That’s what he needed. To get back to being _Dean_. Not Dean plus one, and definitely not Dean minus one.

“Maybe you could take someone to the homecoming game tonight?” Charlie suggested. “Everyone’s going. It might be fun!”

It didn’t sound like very much fun. But not very much did anymore.

He groaned, knowing she wouldn’t leave him alone until he agreed. Somewhere really deep down, he even kind of appreciated it. He was lucky he got her in the divorce.

He raised his arm up limply and let it drop back down to the mattress in a defeated gesture, giving her the go-ahead.

She let out a whooping cheer of victory, and it made pain spike in his head. He winced. She didn’t seem to notice, though. She reached for his phone, and he didn’t bother telling her the pass code. She had it unlocked in about five seconds, anyway.

It took a few minutes of her thumbing through some applications, because Dean had deleted that app months ago. He really didn’t think he’d ever need it again. But then, when she got his old account downloaded and back up, she gasped a little and exclaimed, “Looks like that Lisa girl is still available!”

Dean blinked, trying to think back. “Who?”

“The one with the cat. You remember.” He really didn’t. She turned the phone to him, showing him Lisa’s profile. It was an updated picture, but he remembered her face. She was still hot.

“Oh. Right,” he said, really trying to be interested. Maybe he would have been under different circumstances.

“I’m messaging her,” Charlie said, already typing away. When she was done, she put the phone down, and it took a couple of minutes before it chimed with a new message. Charlie grinned excitedly. “She messaged back! She said, _Hey, Dean. Nice to see you back on this thing. Thought you were off the market_.”

Dean snorted. “I was.”

Charlie ignored him, already typing again, and Lisa returned the message a little quicker this time. Charlie read, “ _Their loss is my gain. You going to the game tonight?_ ” She looked up at Dean, wide-eyed and begging. “She totally wants to meet up with you!”

Dean rolled his eyes to bite back his half-smile. Okay, so he was a catch. It wasn’t the first time he got a date off his looks alone. It wasn’t like that had to boost his confidence or anything.

“Aren’t I supposed to be the one doing the flirting?” he grunted.

Charlie slapped the phone against his chest, and Dean had to catch it before it fell when she drew away. “Then, you do it. Tell her you’ll see her there!”

Dean looked down at the phone, reading over the transcript of the conversation. His heart sank a little when he saw what Charlie had replied to Lisa’s first message: _I was for a little while. Didn’t work out. Ready for some fun_. There was a winky face at the end of the message.

He tensed his jaw, reminding himself why exactly it hadn’t “worked out.”

He typed, _You bet. Buy you a drink there?_

Flirting was easy. Buying someone a drink was easy. Sex was easy.

The thought of actually doing any of those things with someone other than Cas was not all that easy.

The phone dinged. Lisa replied, _Make it a beer and I’m there_.

///

Castiel wished he and Dean Winchester had never met.

Not for his own sake. Because, honestly, he would rather have the pain than the ignorance. It cut like a knife inside of him every time he took in a breath, and the feeling never dulled. It made him lose sleep, so much that his mind was sluggish and he felt like he was in a fog, and his eyes felt bloodshot and dry all the time. It made him lose his appetite. It made things like schoolwork seem pointless. Everything was numb and colorless.

But he deserved all that.

Because he’d hurt Dean. He’d hurt Dean and lost him. And he didn’t know how he was supposed to live with that. He wished Dean could just forget about him. He prayed Dean wasn’t feeling the same listless pain that plagued Castiel. If Dean was even experiencing a fraction of it, he wanted all memory of himself to be wiped from Dean’s life.

Castiel deserved that, too.

He didn’t deserve to occupy Dean’s thoughts. He didn’t deserve a moment of Dean’s time or affection.

Castiel wanted to shoulder all the hurt for himself, like Atlas holding up the earth. He wanted his knees to shake under the weight and his arms to grow sore and heavy. He wanted to keep the pain because it was the last part of Dean he had left.

But he wished, for Dean’s sake, they had never met. Because, maybe then, he’d know that Dean was okay.

It had been almost a month since Castiel had gotten back from the retreat center. On the drive over, he’d expected it to be some kind of horrible conversion therapy, but he supposed those things didn’t really exist in America anymore. It wasn’t that bad, really, and not at all invasive. It was basically just a lot of listening to a priest read scripture, and a lot of time in the confessional, and a lot of time reciting the Our Father and Hail Mary. He’d spent most of the week on his knees, which he thought was kind of ironic.

But, all in all, he’d gotten the message: the church was archaic in regards to sexuality and his brothers would not stand for him being in a relationship with a man.

As for the relationship, that was over.

But there wasn’t much the priests or Michael could do about the fact that Castiel was still in love with Dean and always would be. And, if it weren’t for the threat to the Winchesters that Michael held over him, Castiel would be with Dean right then and there.

He wasn’t supposed to see Dean again, but he’d snuck to Dean’s apartment as soon as he could after the retreat. He’d taken a few buses over, switching from one to the other to confuse his route in case anyone were following him. It was a ridiculous precaution, but Castiel needed to see Dean again.

He owed him an explanation, or at least a goodbye. He hadn’t provided much of either.

All he’d really done was broken his own heart.

He supposed he deserved that, too.

In the month since that night, to occupy the time that Castiel wasn’t in class, Michael had him working at Evangelist. Mostly, he shadowed the different executives on their day to days. He’d spent his first week with Uriel, which wasn’t so bad, at least, even if it was dull. His next was with Zachariah, who generally treated Castiel like an intern, making him fetch coffee and his lunch most days. The third week, he shadowed Naomi, which was torture, and he’d rather stick a pin in his eye than spend another second with her.

He was supposed to spend the current week with Raphael, but he’d been called away on business to Kansas City, much to Castiel’s frustration. It’s what he’d been waiting for all month, mainly because of what Dean had told him at the police station. He believed Dean, but he still hadn’t told Michael about the accusation. He needed proof first, and it was possible he could get it if he spent a week following Raphael around. Castiel had tried to sneak into his office when he knew Raphael was out, but he could never get past his assistant with a reasonable enough excuse.

Instead, he spent the week with Evangelist’s head of HR, and he quickly learned that he didn’t exactly have “people skills.”

Michael made himself scarce for most of Castiel’s time in the office. He was constantly running from one meeting to the next, and Castiel really only saw him on Sundays. He was happy about that. He wished he didn’t see Michael at all.

It was exhausting, pretending everything was fine. Pretending that he wasn’t continuously a moment away from throwing someone—probably himself—out of the nearest window.

Pretending that he didn’t miss Dean all the time.

Pretending for everyone, but especially for himself.

He shut that part of himself off the moment he walked out of the Winchesters’ apartment building. Somehow, it still crept up on him at the strangest of times.

And then there were times when it was perfectly clear why his emotions got the better of him. Like now.

He, Meg, and Balthazar had driven over to the homecoming game across campus in Castiel’s truck, despite the fact that it had begun making that clicking noise again he had no way of fixing it without Dean. The stadium was already packed with students and spectators when they arrived, and they had to push through a sea of people in the hallway that circled the stands in order to get to the proper section their tickets indicated.

They had just made it to their seats, and were sardined in with the masses—already cheering, already drunk, body paint already smudged—when Meg took out a bottle of vodka from under her jacket. The seal had been broken, and it looked like a few sips had been taken from it, but it was mostly full. They had pregamed at their apartment before heading over, so Castiel was already pleasantly numb, and he blanched at her as she held the bottle up in her gloved hands.

“How did you get that in?” he asked, amazed. They had to go through security checks before entering the stadium.

She winked at him and opened up the cap. “I have my ways.” She took a big gulp, and then handed it over to Balthazar.

“Ooh, lovely. This will warm us up nicely,” he said gratefully as he accepted the bottle. “I’m already freezing my bits off.”

Castiel rolled his eyes, and looked forward at the marching band playing the school anthem on the field. His eyes scanned the crowd before him. They were pretty close to the field, and all he could see around them was a moving throng of blue and crimson. He wondered if the Winchesters were in there somewhere.

He got his answer rather quickly, when his eyes drifted to where the cheerleaders were doing their stretches on the sidelines. The Jayhawk mascot was nearby, jumping up and down and flapping its wings to incite the crowd.

Right in front of the scene, leaning against the inside barrier separating the field from the stands, was Dean. He was a little blurry to Castiel’s eyes, but Castiel could still see him. His broad shoulders in his brown leather jacket, and the way he was hunched in on himself to fend against the late October chill. The bow of his legs in his jeans. He was alone.

It was the first Castiel had seen of him since the night they broke up. All the sounds of the crowd and the band faded into silence as Castiel’s heartbeat pounded in his ears. It was like everything around him had stopped, his vision tunneling so the only thing he could see was Dean. Dean, after all, was the only important thing in the arena of thousands.

More than anything, Castiel wanted to be at his side, to feel the sure weight of Dean’s arms around him. Castiel wanted to dip his head into Dean’s throat and breathe in the spicy, earthy scent of his skin and the old leather smell of his jacket that clung to him long after he shed the layer. There were so many people in between them, surrounding Castiel on all sides. He wished he could fly.

Castiel felt himself turning before he even knew what he was doing, meaning to push by the people boxing him in. He kept his eyes wide and unblinking, fixed on Dean, not wanting to lose him.

He hadn’t seen him in so long. He never anticipated that just _looking_ at Dean would send him for a loop. He never wanted to look away again.

Dean glanced up suddenly, his eyes sparkling green as they focused on something, and a smile stretched onto his face so that those tiny creases wrinkled his skin. Castiel felt the wind knock out of him when he realized that smile wasn’t for him.

A dark haired woman walked up to Dean, and he stood up from his lean on the wall. They talked for a second, both of them grinning at each other. He said something that made her laugh flirtatiously, and Castiel balled his fists to quell the sudden heat inside of him. Who was she? Why did she get to laugh at Dean’s jokes? Why did she get to elicit that kind of beautiful, starry smile from Dean?

The two of them turned together, and his arm went around her shoulders as they walked off. Castiel blinked, and by the time his eyes were open again, Dean was lost to the crowd.

The alcohol sitting in his stomach no longer made him feel like he was floating. The numbness it caused was no longer pleasurable.

Dean was with someone else. Dean had moved on.

He tried to tell himself that was a good thing. It meant Dean wasn’t in pain. He was happy. Castiel wanted that for him.

No, he wanted that for _them_. He wanted to be the one to make Dean happy, but all he’d ever done was bring misery.

Belatedly, he felt something solid tapping against his chest. He looked down, and found Balthazar was reaching over Meg to offer Castiel the vodka. Seeing Dean must have happened in the time it took for him to take a swig of the drink. How was that possible? It felt like it had gone on for hours.

“Cheers, darling,” Balthazar said with a wink when Castiel relieved him of the bottle.

Castiel wrapped his fingers around it, staring down at the clear liquid inside for a long time.

He was happy Meg had brought it.

Quickly, he unscrewed the cap and tossed it away, because it wouldn’t need to be sealed again. He would buy Meg a new bottle as payment later.

As for the current one, he wasn’t sharing.

///

Okay, so Lisa was really hot. And she was really smart, and down to earth, too. And her sense of humor matched Dean’s pretty well. They even had the same favorite beer.

Maybe Charlie talking him into doing this wasn’t so bad, after all.

It was right after the halftime show, and they decided not to stay in the cramped bleachers anymore, because neither of them had really been paying attention to the game, anyway. They’d both just wanted to hang out for halftime, because it turned out Lisa had been a competitive cheerleader in high school, and Dean was _very_ interested in cheerleaders.

They went to the concessions area, grabbed a few more beers and some overpriced fries to share, and camped out at one of the tables right outside the stadium. Lisa told Dean all about her job as a yoga instructor, and how she wanted to open up her own studio after graduating. He couldn’t help but comment on how bendy she must have been between that and the cheerleading, and she laughed and said, “play your cards right, and you might find out.”

And, yeah, it was shaping up to be a pretty great night.

She told him about her cat and her family back in Indiana, and he talked about Sam, of course. She seemed genuinely interested when he told her about Bobby’s garage and how he’d like to run it someday.

“Oh, I should have you look at my bike,” she said excitedly, which kind of surprised him. She had a Harley, and showed him some pictures of it. He told her about the Impala, and she said her dad owned an old Barracuda when she was a kid.

The whole conversation made Dean a little giddy, because Lisa kind of rocked. Around her, he started to feel more like his old self. The self that was good at pool and card games, who could talk his way into any party, who didn’t spend Saturday nights holed up on the couch watching TV or cooking dinner while his boyfriend did homework. God, had he really been that lame? He used to be fun. He used to be fearless.

When did he go so domestic? That wasn’t him at all!

Somehow, the conversation turned to his childhood, and he got to tell her a little bit about the places he lived when his dad was still in the Marines.

“That must have been hard for you,” she said, “having to move around so much like that.”

“No, it was cool,” he told her. “Plus, it helped Sammy get ahead. He took enough classes at all his different schools to skip a grade.”

She tipped her head to the side at that, seeming a little perplexed. “Really? You don’t hear about kids skipping grades a lot. I thought that was only something that happened in the movies.”

Dean didn’t really respond, because he hadn’t exactly heard what she said. He was too wrapped up in the way her head was canted, and the small line that had formed between her eyes when she pulled her brows together. A soft, slow smile came to his face, even though some of the warmth he’d been feeling swarmed and transformed into a weird pressure, too tight for his chest.

She must have noticed the way he was looking at her, because she sat back and touched her face, seeming a little nervous. It broke Dean out of his thoughts, and he felt kind of shitty, because he hadn’t been seeing her at all.

“What? What is it?” she asked, still blindly prodding around her mouth for a smear of ketchup or some crumbs.

He tried to cut the pressure with a laugh, and shook his head. “Nothin’,” he tried, because he didn’t want to bring Cas up. He didn’t even want to think about him. He was having a good time, and now that was souring somewhat as the melancholy he’d been neck deep in for the past month started to flood him again. It seeped in, icy and stinging, through all the cracks.

Why did Cas have to be everywhere he looked? Why couldn’t Dean go one night without thinking about him?

“What?” Lisa pressed, laughing lyrically.

He looked down at the table, shaking his head, and then glanced back up at her. “Nothin’, it’s just—that thing you just did. The—,” he demonstrated, cocking his head to the side. It felt kind of funny to do, because he was picturing Cas as a model instead of her. “I just, uh—I knew somebody who did that.”

Her smile fell a little, brown eyes losing some of their sparkle like she hadn’t expected to hear that. “Oh, yeah?”

He nodded, and felt another laugh burst out of him in memory. He picked up a fry, mushy and a little stale now, and twirled it idly in the heaping of ketchup they’d squirted into the corner of the paper basket. “Yeah, like, _all_ the time. Kinda made him look like a puppy. Always did it when he didn’t get something, like a movie reference or something. He was the _worst_ at that. You’d think he’d been living under a rock forever. I finally just made him watch a bunch of DVDs so we could speak the same language. He stopped doing the head thing as much after that, which was kind of a shame, actually. But, hey, at least he knew who Luke Skywalker was.”

Something else popped into his mind. All those lame historical fiction movies Dean had downloaded just to grab Cas’ interest. That stupid Abe Lincoln movie . . .

“Oh! And there was this one time—.”

He accidentally caught her eyes, and realized they were the entirely wrong color.

And there was something in them. She was giving him a funny, analyzing look—but there was a divide there. Like she was trying to look into him but just couldn’t. All she could see was the surface. And wasn’t it just his luck that his heart had jumped right out and landed on his sleeve?

His grin faded. He’d been rambling on about _Cas_. Shit. And it’d been so easy to do, too. It was like talking about Sam. That was usually his go-to. Because talking about Sam was easy, safe. It was second nature.

Somewhere along the line, Cas had become safe, too.

“Ah, never mind,” he said apologetically, not quite able to look at her dead on. He chewed on his lower lip, trying not to make it obvious that his nerves were on fire and he could feel his heart beating for the first time since Cas walked out on him. “It’s nothing. Forget it.”

“No, no,” she quickly said, feigning interest. “Go ahead!”

That would be a terrible idea. “Nah.” He looked for a distraction, and an excuse to step away for a second so he could calm himself down. God, that was so embarrassing. He noticed her beer was getting low, so he asked, “Want another one?”

She nodded, seeming pretty relieved about the subject change herself. “Sure.”

They talked a little more after that, but the conversation remained superficial after the whole Cas disaster. Dean was pretty okay with not talking at all when they started making out, even though her cheek under his hand was way too smooth and her jaw was rounded instead of sharp. Her lips were a little too soft, too, and tasted sweet and fruity like chapstick. And what the hell was he supposed to do with all that hair? It was so long! He’d forgotten how to handle that.

He was probably just being paranoid. He was good at making out. He’d never gotten a bad review, and Lisa seemed to be okay with how things were going. He was just in his head too much, and out of practice with girls. But this wasn’t amateur hour. He could figure it out. He could do this.

Not long after, the game ended, and people started flocking out of the stadium towards the parking lot. Dean guessed the Jayhawks had won, because everyone seemed pretty happy. But a homecoming game was pretty much a guaranteed win.

Lisa asked him if he wanted to go hang out at her dorm, which only made his heart skip a little before he reminded himself that he was Dean fucking Winchester and this is what he did. He nodded, and she kissed him one more time before they stood up. She hooked her arm in his and they walked towards the parking lot.

The whole way to the Impala, he was giving himself an internal pep talk. He liked this girl, and it wasn’t like they had to date. He was pretty sure that neither of them were looking for a relationship, at least not that night. But he could have fun. And Lisa was fun.

He was so caught up in his own thoughts that he didn’t really notice what was going on around him until Lisa said, “What’s happening over there?”

Dean paused for a second, confused. And then he heard it.

There was a commotion in the parking lot, right around where the Impala was. The groups of people passing stood on their toes to see what was going on or threw weird looks in the general vicinity, but mostly just walked to where they needed to be. But Dean was walking right to it.

Two people were yelling, one of them sounding really drunk. Sounding like . . . Shit. Dean knew that voice. Dean knew that voice anywhere. He’d heard it in the dark plenty of times.

As he and Lisa approached the Impala, the crowd thinned out, and Dean’s suspicions were confirmed. Cas and Meg were hovering near the car. Meg had her hand on Cas’ sleeve, trying to pull him away, and he was fighting her at every turn.

“Castiel, come with me right now or I’m gonna light you on fire, ‘kay?” she was saying with faux-patience, every syllable coming out through her teeth. Dean’s kneejerk reaction was to get pissed and yell at her to back off.

But Cas looked like he had that covered. He grabbed her by the wrist and shoved her off of him. “No! I’m not—I’m going with—.” He was blinking way too rapidly, and he was swaying on his feet. He looked like he was about to keel over any second.

Something weird was going on it Dean’s chest. He wanted to cry. And he wanted to laugh. And he wanted to punch something until his knuckles bled. And he wanted to run away and hide. And he wanted to scoop Cas up and kiss him.

He felt Lisa looking at him questioningly, but he didn’t look back. His eyes were fixed on Cas.

“Do you know him?” she asked tentatively.

Dean didn’t answer. He clamped his jaw shut, deciding to go with anger. What the hell was Cas doing, standing around his car like that? Dean should get in and run his ass over.

“The fuck are you doing here?” he demanded, making his voice as challenging as possible.

Both Meg and Cas’ eyes snapped over to him, and she straightened out a little, her lips thinning like this run in was the last thing she wanted. And, really, she should join the club.

Cas, however, lit up, and Dean tried not to focus on how adorable it was. “Dean!” he yelled, way louder than he had to. He stumbled a little as he rushed to meet Dean, and then threw his arms around him. Dean went rigid, not knowing what the hell to do. Because Cas was pressed up against him and Dean could hear his breath in his ear and feel the rise and fall of his chest, and it was the best damn feeling in the world—and it made him furious. Because it reminded him of what he couldn’t have.

“Alright, get off me,” Dean said, fighting his way out of the embrace and keeping Cas at a distance with his hands on his shoulders. Cas’ hands, icy and dry, flew to Dean’s cheeks, cradling him as his eyes flitted about Dean’s face.

“Cas, I mean it,” he said, his resolve weakening as he halfheartedly tried to swat Cas away, because he couldn’t stand it. The way Cas was looking at him. That soul-searching, smitten look of his that made Dean swoon because, for the first time in weeks, he felt _seen_. He looked into Cas’ big blue eyes, striking and sad no matter how glassy they were right now.

And then Cas’ expression changed, paling a little. He looked like he might be sick, but all he did was waver on his feet. Dean grabbed him instinctively to keep him from tipping over, saying, “Cas. _Cas_! Easy! Cas.”

A smile broke onto Cas’ face, and his eyes slipped closed into it, like he was listening to some kind of beautiful music. All Dean heard was some rap song in the distance coming from the football field. But Cas hummed happily before collapsing against Dean’s chest.

That time, Dean wrapped his arms around him and let him stay there, just to keep him upright, and Cas promptly wrapped his arms around Dean’s middle. Over Cas’ shoulder, he glared at Meg. “How much did you let him drink?” He’d never seen Cas that far gone.

She blanched, offended. “Me? I tried to _stop_ him. I was trying to get him back home, and then he saw your fucking pile of junk over here.”

Dean rolled his eyes, knowing Meg was only trying to get a rise out of him by insulting his car. Cas groaned pathetically into Dean’s shirt and buried his head in Dean’s chest. His hair was blowing in the October breeze and tickling Dean’s chin slightly. It had gotten a little longer, Dean realized, and for some reason that was heart wrenching.

“Well, get him home!” Dean yelled. This wasn’t his fucking problem. He and Cas were over.

“Yeah, thanks, Einstein. Think _you_ can wrestle his car keys away from him?”

Dean huffed, and tried not to worry too much about how Meg was going to get Cas back to his place, or what was going to happen once she did. Cas needed someone to stay with him and take care of him. And who was that going to be? Her? It should have been him.

Dean looked around, but didn’t see any other familiar faces. “Where’s Balthazar?”

Meg let out a bitter laugh and crossed her arms over her chest. “Left with some sleazeball.”

 _Great_. So no one would be there for Cas. No one would even be able to get him through the door of his apartment building, because Cas was all but useless right now and Dean didn’t know the new door code. So, unless Meg did . . . Which, on second thought, wasn’t a question Dean wanted answered.

“’m not leaving with her,” Cas mumbled. Dean looked down at him, pushing his head back and scrunching his chin a little in the process. He hadn’t realized how tightly he’d been holding on to Cas until Cas pulled away slightly to lift his head. “Was waiting for you, Dean. I—,” he hiccupped, and it was so stupid and cute. Cas’ eyes were so earnest. “I saw you—and she—with—there was the thing. I tried to get to you. You were by the mas—the mask—the costume bird.”

Dean shook his head, trying to figure out what Cas was talking about.

“Look, Castiel, let’s just go,” Meg said, sounding done, as she stepped up and tried to grab Castiel’s arm again. He reacted immediately, shoving her away and shouting something that Dean couldn’t make out because it was so slurred. She jumped back, blanching, and cradling her arm. He must have hurt her, and Dean kind of wanted to give him a high five.

But then Cas shouted, “I told you, I’m going with Dean! I love him!”

Dean sucked in a sharp breath, and then all motor functions stopped.

No. Cas wasn’t allowed to say that. He wasn’t allowed to do that. Dean was having a nice time, for once. He felt alright for the first time in weeks. Cas didn’t get to make him feel like shit again. Cas didn’t get to change his mind. He’s the one who walked out.

“Don’t think that’s the best idea, angel,” Meg told him firmly.

Cas was shaking his head frantically. “No, it _is_ the best idea. It’s the best idea. I love him.”

“Stop staying that,” Dean growled, just as something the size of a crater opened up in his stomach. Everything else inside of him tumbled down into it.

Cas turned back to him, his fingertips ghosting along Dean’s jaw again. “It’s true. Dean. I know I’m not—I shouldn’t—but. Oh, _Dean_.”

Before much of anything else could happen, Cas fell against Dean’s chest, and he was nothing but dead weight. Dean thought he might have passed out.

Crap. He needed to get Cas home.

He gave a loud sigh, not really knowing how else to express himself. He shot another hateful glare at Meg. “I’m getting him home.”

“Yeah, right,” she scoffed. “How do I know you won’t leave him in a ditch somewhere.”

He tried to shuffle Cas’ weight to one side to find a better way to maneuver him towards the Impala. Cas’ head lolled down to his chest. Yeah, he was gone to the world. And, for some reason, that was Dean’s problem now.

“Oh, I just might,” he said through his teeth. “But I’m the only choice you got, sweetheart.”

She rolled her eyes, and threw up her hands. “Fine. I’m over it. Just make sure you actually deliver the package this time, huh, Dean?” She must have not cared that much, though, because she promptly turned on her heels and marched away.

Dean watched after her, hatred simmering in his gut, and then he refocused on Cas. He was slipping a little, so Dean tried to heave him back up, and then someone appeared on Cas’ other side. Lisa. Dean had kind of forgotten all about her. She lifted Cas’ arm up and put it over her shoulder.

“Let me help,” she offered, giving Dean sympathetic eyes. She must have figured out what was going on by now. Slowly, they walked Cas the rest of the way to the Impala. “So, I’m guessing this is the person it didn’t work out with?”

Dean almost laughed. “Yeah, that would be him.”

“Well, no offense, but it kinda seems like you still have a lot to—you know—work out.”

Dean didn’t say anything, mostly because she had no idea. They did have a lot of crap to sift through. But they wouldn’t. It wasn’t their style.

Somehow, they managed to get Cas into the passenger seat, and he immediately collapsed against the window when Dean closed the door. Dean turned around to face Lisa, suddenly not sure what to do now that his hands weren’t full. He reached back and rubbed awkwardly at his neck.

“So, uh—not exactly the first date you had in mind, huh?” he said apologetically.

She shrugged, crossing her arms against the cold. “Actually, I’ve had worse.”

Weirdly, that made him feel better. But it didn’t change anything. She deserved better. She was a cool chick. She shouldn’t be a rebound girl. “Well, I’d say let’s try again, but . . .”

“But you’re still not over your ex?” she ventured a guess, her lips quirking in a smirk.

He looked down at the keys in his hand, fiddling with his bullet shell keychain. “Is it that obvious?” he tried to joke.

She snorted. “Kinda figured that out when you wouldn’t shut up about him earlier.”

God, Dean was such an asshole.

He looked up, not really knowing what to say. He felt terrible. He opened and closed his mouth a few times before saying, “I gotta get him to bed. But let me at least drive you home.”

She shook her head politely. “A couple of my friends are here. I can catch a ride with them. You just make sure he’s alright.”

He nodded, half-grateful and half-disappointed. He guessed he’d wasted both their time.

Lisa turned around, starting to walk away, but then she paused and looked over her shoulder. “Look, Dean. I think you’re probably a good guy, which—honestly? Is hard to come by on a dating app. Or ever. So—you ever think you’re really ready to get back out there—who knows? Maybe you can give me a call.”

He pushed a smile, but it probably looked like a grimace. He wanted to imagine a future when that was possible, but let’s face it. He’d never be over Cas.

Lisa wished him luck, and then she wove through the cars in the lot, disappearing back towards the blinding white lights of the stadium. Dean sighed, his breath fogging around his mouth. He walked around the car and slid into the driver’s side.

Cas was out cold, forehead tipped against the glass and eyes closed. His face was kind of scrunched in a grumpy expression—all pouty, frowny face and surly eyebrows. Dean softened at the sight of it before remembering how fucked up this entire situation was.

Cas never drank that much before. Sure, he got drunk, but he usually stopped before blacking out. Why did he drink so much tonight?

Whatever. It wasn’t Dean’s business. He shouldn’t be so concerned.

He started the car and drove towards the exit of the lot. By that time, the mass exodus was happening, and there was a stream of red taillights bleeding into the night as people merged onto the main road. Dean got in line and waited, clutching the steering wheel. His hands should have been on a pretty girl, on the way back to her place. Instead, he got this.

And—worst part? He was reluctantly okay with that. How messed up was that?

It took about ten minutes to get out of the parking lot, and another fifteen to get off campus. Dean drove in the direction of his apartment because he couldn’t get into Cas’ anymore and, even if he could, there wouldn’t be anyone there to make sure Cas didn’t choke to death on his own vomit. And, sure, part of him just wanted to dump Cas on his front stoop and make him fend for himself, but he’d feel guilty about it from the second he drove off until the day he died. They’d probably have to mention it in his obituary.

He’d just driven through downtown by the time Cas came to, groaning a little. He blinked one eye open. “Dean?”

Dean glanced over at him, his whole body on red alert all of a sudden. “Yeah,” he said, and swallowed down the stone forming in his throat.

Cas groaned again. He was still clearly drunk, but it looked like the belligerence had faded and he’d moved on to the miserable stage. “I think I . . . too much to drink,” he slurred, the second half of the sentence a barely audible mumble as he dipped his chin against his chest.

Dean snorted. “No kidding.”

“You’re here.”

Dean worked his throat, and had to resist the urge to swerve to the side of the road and punch Cas’ lights out. Because Cas’ voice had been so soft and loving, and it was just so unfair.

He tightened his hands around the steering wheel to anchor him. “Yeah, you’re pretty toasted, huh?”

“Mmm.” Cas let his head fall back over the back of his seat, exposing his throat. Dean stared at it for a few seconds, his mouth going dry.

He forced himself to keep his eyes on the road. This was the worst night ever. And he wanted Cas to know that. He wanted Cas to know how shitty what he was doing right now was—what he’d been doing for the past month. He wanted Cas to know what he’d done to him. That this was one of the worst things that’s ever happened to Dean, and that was in a long list of worst things that ever happened to him.

Cas needed to know that.

And Dean wouldn’t have to hold it in anymore and pretend he was dealing.

And, actually, maybe this could work.

“You’re not gonna remember any of this?” Dean asked, already knowing the answer.

Cas groaned as if in agreement.

Dean nodded. “Yeah, well. Fuck you.” That’s kind of what it all boiled down to—everything he wanted to say, everything he was feeling. It was the headline. But Dean was just warming up.

He shook his head, pulling his mouth down into a frown. “You know, Cas. I get it, okay? Your life sucks. Boo-hoo. Poor little rich kid whose got his whole future handed to him.” It wasn’t fair. Dean knew it wasn’t fair. Because Cas didn’t have his own freedom, but that didn’t really matter right now, because Cas had chosen to stay chained down.

“You up and disappear for a week—make me go outta my mind worrying. Then, outta nowhere, you’re knocking on my door saying it’s over.” He scoffed, thick and phlegmy. “And, sure, maybe that was my fault. You realized that I’m no good. Just some low life who isn’t gonna amount to anything. Just gonna end up in jail or dead or worse. And you didn’t wanna get dragged down with me. You realized your family’d been right the whole time.”

This wasn’t supposed to be how this went down. Dean was supposed to be reaming Cas, not himself. But damn, if it wasn’t true.

“I lied to you and I shouldn’t’a done that. So, yeah, I fucked it up and you bailed. Probably the smart thing to do. Good for you.”

Somehow, he was making himself feel both better and worse at the same time. He guessed it was easier to hate himself than to hate Cas.

“But you walked out that day and it . . .” His throat closed up, eyes starting to burn. He blinked it away. He couldn’t say it—even if Cas wouldn’t remember it, even if he were talking to nothing but thin air. He couldn’t actually say the words, _you broke my heart_.

They made him feel so fucking weak. How had he ever allowed anyone to make him feel that way? How had he ever let someone that deep under his skin, so deep he became Dean’s resting pulse?

“God. This month’s been hell. Because I still . . .”

He passed his teeth along his bottom lip, sucking at it a little in thought.

He smiled bitterly, glancing over at Cas again, who was staring ahead blankly and slumping in his seat. None of this was registering, most likely.

“But it doesn’t matter, right?”

Cas blinked. Dean looked back at the road.

“And then, I met this girl tonight—and she’s awesome. Probably way too good for me. But what the hell, right? I’m thinking—maybe I can do this. First time all month, I’m thinking maybe I’ll be okay. Maybe I don’t have to feel like I’m drowning in it twenty-four seven. And then—,” he scoffed out a laugh. “Your sorry ass comes along and—you say shit like _that_. And I just can’t . . .”

Damn it. He felt some of the moisture in his eyes fall down from his lashes. The lights along the road were twinkling hazily, sharp rings haloing them in a blur. Dean tried to blink them back into focus.

“You can’t _do_ that. You get that, right? You can’t make me think there’s a shot for us when . . . I mean, there’s not, right? You don’t want that.” Even now, buried in all the sorrow, a tiny sprig of hope bloomed. It was awful.

“You gotta let me know, Cas. Are you in or out? Because I can’t do this shit again.”

He turned fully away from the road now, keeping his eyes on Cas. Cas was slumping even more now, totally unresponsive.

“Well?” Dean prompted, some of his rage swelling inside of him again. “You got anything to say to that?”

Cas stayed silent for a long time, and Dean was just about to give up on him. And then, in the smallest of voices, he said, “I wish we’d never met.”

Something inside of Dean split down the middle. It wasn’t a clean tear. He’d probably never get the ridges to align again, so he wouldn’t be able to glue and staple it into something whole. He thought maybe the crack ran through whatever part of the brain that was responsible for bodily sensations, because he suddenly couldn’t feel a damn thing. It was like everything in him just stopped.

But it couldn’t have been his brain, right? If it were, why had he felt it in his chest?

He nodded slowly, and turned back to the road. Guess that was it, then, straight from the horse’s too-inebriated-to-lie mouth.

Guess that was it.

He revved the engine, and tricked himself into believing he’d feel something again when he reached his destination.

///

“Alright, come on, buddy. Few more steps.”

He practically had to drag Cas up to the landing outside his apartment’s door, and it was times like these that Dean wished there was an elevator in this crap building. He readjusted his arm under Cas’ armpit, shifting all Cas’ weight to his right side as he fished for the keys in his jacket pocket. His lungs were burning from exertion and his knees were starting to shake a little, and it occurred to him just how out of shape he was.

It was then that Cas decided to show some signs of life by groaning and turning his nose into the crook of Dean’s neck. “‘m gon’ throw up,” he muttered, and Dean grimaced, really hoping that Cas didn’t mean right now. That’d really suck.

“You know, Cas, I’m supposed to be the alcoholic one here,” he said as his keys jingled in the lock. Cas chuckled loudly and drunkenly, probably waking up a few neighbors in the process. He leaned further into Dean, practically burying his face into Dean’s throat, and Dean had to ignore the feeling of Cas’ lips on his skin.

“I love’ou, Dean W’nches’r,” Cas whispered against him, and Dean ignored that, too.

He pushed the door open, letting it swing until it hit the wall. They stumbled inside together, and Dean stopped them briefly to reach around Cas and shut the door again. He took Cas right to the bathroom, muttering encouragements like, “C’mon, you asshole, almost there. Don’t puke on me.”

Cas tossed his cookies pretty much the second Dean knelt him down in front of the toilet. He held him up by the shoulders and had to look away so he wouldn’t throw up himself as Cas heaved and wretched and the water splashed in the bowl.

“Alright, let it out,” he muttered, and realized he’d started rubbing soothing circles on Cas’ back.

After a few minutes, Cas rested his cheek on the toilet seat and caught his breath, and Dean realized it was probably okay to let him go. He sat back on his ass, slid his back against the counter of the sink, and brought his knees up to rest his elbows. “You done?” He asked.

Cas groaned a little and picked up his head to nod woozily. His eyes were still glossy and unfocused, and he probably still had no idea what was going on. Dean reached over and flushed the toilet as Cas sat back and went limp against the wall. Cas closed his eyes, his forehead scrunching, looking like he was focusing hard on breathing.

Dean just looked at him for a while, letting himself drink in the sight of him while Cas couldn’t notice. Cas’ forehead was shining with sweat; his hair was limp, his skin pallid, and his lips glistening with saliva from throwing up. He generally looked like death warmed up. And Dean wanted to wrap his arms around him and never let go.

As if he sensed he was being looked at, Cas’ eyes fluttered open and, despite how foggy they seemed, the electric blue of them against the bloodshot red found Dean immediately. Dean wanted to keep staring back, but he forced himself to look away, searching for something else to focus on. He glanced up and saw the serrated end of a toothpaste tube sticking off the side of the sink. He reached up and took it down, then tossed it over. It thudded softly onto Cas’ lap, as Cas made no attempt to catch it. He looked down, staring at it like he had no idea what it was.

“Your mouth probably tastes like a battery,” Dean said, taking pity on him. He was about to haul himself up and get Cas’ toothbrush out of the little cup on the sink, but Cas picked up the tube, flipped open the cap, and stuck out his tongue. He squeezed a large glob of the green paste right into his mouth.

Dean couldn’t help it. He snorted with laughter. Cas looked at him with wide eyes, expression helpless and innocent. Dean just laughed. He knew Cas basically turned into a giant baby when he was drunk, but this was just silly. His chest ballooned with fondness as he watched Cas swallow the toothpaste.

After the laughter subsided and Dean’s ribs ached a little from it, he picked himself up from the floor and said, “I think it’s bedtime.” He put one boot on either side of Cas’ legs and leaned down to haul him up by the armpits. Cas, groaning, moved as limply as a ragdoll, putty in Dean’s hands, even though he was fucking heavy and way too beefy for anyone’s own good.

Dean took him to his bedroom and deposited him down on the mattress. Cas hummed and groaned as he snuggled against the pillow, gravitating naturally to the side of the bed closest to the wall that he always occupied. Dean tried not to think too much about it. He made Cas sit up again and helped him out of his trench coat and button down. Cas swayed a lot, and Dean thought it was probably for the best if he got Cas a t-shirt to sleep in, or to at least cover up his chest so Dean wasn’t so distracted by that damn nipple freckle.

“Hang on,” Dean said, releasing Cas. Cas grunted in protest the second Dean’s hands left him, and he rocked a little but didn’t fall back down. Dean quickly rifled through the bottom drawer, where Cas’ clothes were, but the only things in there were more button downs, boxers, and socks. Dean ripped open the drawer above it, where his own t-shirts were, and he pulled out the AC/DC shirt Cas always liked to wear. He brought it back over to the bed and clumsily pulled it over Cas’ head and arms.

When he was done, Cas flopped back down against the pillows. Dean pulled off his shoes and socks, and hesitated momentarily before unbuckling his belt. Cas chuckled again, this time low and raspy, and lifted up his hips as Dean pulled his pants off. Dean thought about all the times he’d done that, and all the times Cas had made the same bubbly, happy sounds. It really wasn’t fair.

When the pants were off, and Cas was only in the t-shirt and his boxers, Dean spread the blanket out over him, and Cas settled in, making soft noises and burying his nose into the pillow. Dean stayed crouched down at the end of the mattress, staring down at him in the darkness, aching.

He forced himself to snap out of it, and he pulled at his mouth, rolling his eyes to beat back the pressure behind them.

So, Cas would sleep it off and leave again in the morning. So what? Everybody had a sad story. This was just part of Dean’s. No need to cry about it like a big baby.

Dean went back over to the dresser and pulled out another ratty shirt. He stepped out of his boots and shrugged out of his jacket. He stripped down to his boxers and pulled on the shirt, then went over to the window and opened it. A gentle autumn breeze instantly came through, and he figured the fresh air would help Cas.

He glanced around again, watching Cas sleep. He’d had every intention of sacking out on the couch, but he didn’t want Cas to drown in his own throw up at some point in the night. So, he went back to the bathroom to pull the mop bucket out from under the sink and then returned to his bedroom. He set the bucket down on the floor beside the mattress and slid under the covers next to Cas. The bed was already warm with body heat, and it was a nice reprieve from the chill nipping at his skin.

He rolled onto his side, pointedly facing away from Cas. If he looked at him, he’d be done for. Just hearing him breathe in sleep was hard enough, because Dean realized he’d missed that sound so much that it was actually kind of hard to sleep without it.

He drifted off just listening.

///

When Castiel woke up, he felt as if he’d been hit by a bus. He jolted awake, taking in a sharp breath and immediately feeling a pressure burning up his throat. His mouth watered with a sense of urgency. But his immediate concern was the darkness surrounding him. It took a long moment for his eyes to adjust to the yellow light pouring into Dean’s bedroom from the streetlamps outside the open window. He had no idea how he’d gotten there, and it was disorienting because, for the briefest moment, he had the fleeting hope that the last few weeks had been a nightmare, and he was fine now; he was home. He’d never left.

Dean was in bed beside him, and Castiel must have woken him up, because he rolled over at once, blinking rapidly as he woke up in a rush of adrenaline. “You’re okay,” he said, voice rough with exhaustion. “You’re at my place.”

Castiel could only blink at him. He couldn’t remember a damn thing. He recalled the cheerleaders bouncing and rushing out to centerfield for the halftime show—but then, nothing. Everything went blank. The harder he attempted to remember, the harder it was. There was a barrier between him and his memories. A streak of shame and embarrassment ran through him, and then worry; because here he was, in Dean’s bed, laying next to him, without real clothes on, and no idea how that happened.

He trusted Dean enough to know he wouldn’t have taken advantage of him, but Castiel was more concerned with what he might have tried on Dean. He’d only blacked out once before, and not for very long. He didn’t know what that side of him was prone to do.

But none of these feelings lasted very long, because that sick pressure was forcing its way upwards, and Castiel sat back on his ankles at once, a rush going to his head. He knew he’d never make it to the bathroom in time. Dean must have known this would happen, because he was prepared. He reached to the side of the bed and brought back a bucket, shoving it against Castiel’s chest. Castiel hugged it immediately and without question, and threw up.

It was disgusting. His eyes watered and his throat burned with acid. His muscles fell limp and his skin prickled and numbed. He felt a thin layer of sweat itching his entire body, and there was a chilled, damp breeze hitting him, but he was hot. This was terrible. He needed it to stop. He wanted to cry. But it didn’t stop. It went on for what felt like forever, until his stomach was hollow and empty yet still somehow queasy and the sound of the sick sloshing in the bucket made him want to throw up more.

When he was sure he was done, he spit one more time, groaned out into a heavy breath, and took his face out of the putrid stench coming from the bucket. He realized Dean was holding the bottom of it, so he let go one hand and wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist.

There was silence for a long stretch, like Dean was expecting him to throw up again, but Castiel didn’t think he would. He felt marginally better, even though all he wanted to do was curl up and die.

He finally managed to feel well enough to grit out, “What happened?”

“You can’t hold your liquor, that’s what,” Dean responded, and Castiel knew that was all he would get out of him. He didn’t know if he was frustrated or grateful for that. He wasn’t really sure he wanted to know.

But he did know one thing: “I shouldn’t be here.” That sense of paranoia came over him, telling him that Michael knew exactly where he was and who he was in bed with.

Castiel couldn’t really see Dean’s expression in the dark, but he saw the outline of Dean’s jaw tighten. “Well, Cas, it’s 3 AM. I ain’t getting up and the buses aren’t running,” he said, sounding tired. Just tired. “So, you wanna go? Start walkin’.” He laid back down again, turning on his side and showing Castiel his back.

Castiel was even more ashamed than before. He hated that Dean thought he didn’t want to be with him. In truth, Castiel wanted nothing more. But he couldn’t. He was tempted to, as Dean said, start walking, but that would be stupid. It would take him forever to get home, and it was cold and late, and this wasn’t exactly the best part of town.

“Maybe I should sleep on the couch?” he whispered, just wanting Dean to tell him what to do. Castiel didn’t know how to navigate this situation.

Dean was quiet and stony. And then, “Do whatever you want, Cas.”

Castiel wanted to stay with him.

He looked down at his lap. “Dean,” he said slowly. Dean had taken him home, taken care of him. That’s what Dean did. He took care of people—even when those people didn’t deserve it. “I’m—I’m sorry I put you in this position.”

Dean rolled onto his back. A mix of sadness and determined detachment were in his eyes, and Castiel didn’t want to see either of those things. He eyed Castiel for a moment and then said, “Yeah, well. Kinda put myself into it.”

Castiel pressed his lips together in a small, shy smile, unable to meet Dean’s eyes. He said, “I’m going to rinse my mouth out.” It still felt gross, and he knew he’d never get to sleep with it like that. He stood up, the mattress squishy and uneven under his bare feet, and his head spinning with vertigo. He picked up the bucket, careful not to spill it, and left the room.

Once in the bathroom, he dumped the contents into the toilet, trying his best not to look and ensure nothing splashed onto the floor at the same time. After he flushed, he went to the sink and stuck his mouth under the faucet, guzzling the cool water until he couldn’t breathe. It tasted a little brackish, like the water always did at Dean’s, but it might as well have been the best thing in the world.

When he stood back up again, he picked up the toothpaste, fully prepared to brush his teeth with his finger. But his eyes automatically glanced at the mug where Dean and Sam kept their toothbrushes. His heart sank a little when he noticed his spare one was still amongst them. He reached for it tentatively, as if he were just imagining it and his fingers would go right through it, shattering the mirage. It was solid. He picked it up, smiling sadly down at it.

Dean had kept his toothbrush. It was such a small, silly thing, but it meant the entire world to Castiel in that moment. Dean had kept his toothbrush, whether on purpose or by oversight. It didn’t matter. It was there. Castiel loved that boy.

There would never be a time that he didn’t love him.

The knowledge of that swept over him as he recalled Dean’s words from just minutes ago. _Kinda put myself into it_. Castiel brushed his teeth, grinning with a giddy feeling in his chest that battled with the roiling in his gut from the alcohol poisoning. Dean still loved him, too. Castiel wouldn’t have woken up next to him in bed if he didn’t. It should have made him sad, and it did, to know that Dean was hurting as much as Castiel was about their break up; but Dean didn’t hate him. Perhaps he wanted to, but he didn’t.

Even though they weren’t together, they were in love. And it was painful and insane and Castiel felt as if he had been split into two, not quite whole anymore, but all it ever did was make him love Dean more.

When he was finished brushing his teeth, he went back to Dean’s room and closed the door behind him gently. Dean was still laying on his back, and he lifted his head slightly to look at Castiel.

Castiel felt suddenly coy, standing there in nothing but his boxers and a t-shirt at the end of the bed. “Hi,” he whispered into the darkness, and crawled back under the covers next to him. It was freezing in the room, and Castiel wanted to cuddle up next to Dean and warm his toes against Dean’s feet.

The shadow of Dean’s head had turned to watch him, and Castiel’s vision was beginning to adjust to the darkness again. He could see Dean’s eyes shining in the low light, and could just make out the bow of his lips.

“You stayin’?” Dean asked gruffly, as if it weren’t obvious.

Castiel wanted to ask him if that was what he wanted, but he refrained. That seemed rather obvious, too. “If that’s okay?”

Dean paused momentarily, as if thinking. And then he dropped back down to his pillow and said, “Sure.”

Castiel slowly laid down on his back, looking up at the shadows from outside on the ceiling. It felt kind of strange to lay so close to Dean’s warmth without turning into him and fitting their bodies together like a puzzle. Dean usually liked to cuddle, and Castiel had grown accustomed to it. He itched for it now, but he knew he shouldn’t.

And he knew he shouldn’t be there. This would only make it harder to leave again, to keep his emotions down and deprive himself of Dean. But he wondered if just one more night would be worth a lifetime of pain. He wondered if he would regret it later if he stayed, and if he’d regret it if he walked out the door.

But the sensation made him feel awkward, and he had the urge to speak, even though Dean was trying to sleep. Castiel suddenly felt wide-awake, and his stomach was churning uncomfortably for more than one reason now. “Dean,” he said, and waited until Dean grunted to prompt him to continue. “Thank you. For taking care of me.”

It felt inadequate, but what was he supposed to say? That he was sorry? That he still loved him? That he wanted to be with him? Would Dean even listen if he said those things? Would it even matter? It couldn’t change anything.

“Don’t mention it.” Dean sounded more awake, too, and Castiel wondered if either of them would get much sleep that night. Especially Castiel, who kept thinking of the way Dean’s face brightened when that dark haired woman approached him. He wondered if Dean had been seeing her long, or if this was a new development. He knew it was none of his business. After all, Castiel had no right to ask. They were broken up and would inevitably remain that way. Dean should move on.

Castiel wouldn’t ask. Asking would only cause him more pain.

“Who was that girl you were with tonight?”

He considered, perhaps, he was addicted to pain when it came to Dean. This couldn’t have been healthy.

The starchy sheets rustled as Dean shifted a little. “You remember that?”

Castiel turned his head over on the pillow to look at Dean’s profile in the shadows, framed by the orange light from outside. “I saw you before the game.”

Dean puckered his lips, and Castiel’s vision narrowed in on them. Perhaps, in the darkness, he was allowed to look. It hurt though, how much he wanted to kiss them.

“Just some dating app hook up.”

“Oh.” So, it was new. That was a relief. Castiel swallowed down the constriction in his throat when he realized it wasn’t such a relief after all, because it meant Dean wanted to sleep with someone else. Someone who wasn’t him. He tried not to imagine Dean kissing that girl, or imagine someone else getting to hear the sounds he made in the throes of pleasure. Someone else’s hands palming the rolling muscles of Dean’s back as he worked his hips.

Castiel looked back up at the ceiling. “You were going to have sex with her.”

He hadn’t meant to make it sound so accusatory.

Dean’s voice was sharp when he responded, “Yeah, you got a problem with that?”

Yes, he did, actually. “No.” He thought he should add, “I’m sorry that I ruined that for you,” even though he really wasn’t.

“Whatever. It probably wouldn’t’a worked out anyway.”

That seemed like a strange thing to determine from a first meeting. “Why not?”

“She wasn’t . . .” Dean paused, grunted. “It just wasn’t right.”

Castiel didn’t really know what to say to that. He readjusted his hands on his stomach, which had settled, thankfully. He just kept his hands there for comfort, and wished Dean were the one holding him.

“What about you and Meg?” Dean asked him, and Castiel didn’t understand the question.

“What about Meg and me?” He didn’t find her desirable, if that’s what Dean was asking. He had once, but not anymore. She was just a friend. More than that, she was a way to keep an eye on Azazel. If Castiel could just get him alone, find a way to get answers out of him without him getting suspicious . . .

It was a slow process. Meg rarely invited him over anymore since they stopped dating.

“You two back together?” Dean almost sounded jealous. Castiel tried not to smile at that.

“No.”

“Oh.”

There was a long stretch of silence. And then, “Hey, Cas?”

Castiel rolled onto his side to face him. “What?”

Dean turned his head on the pillow to meet his eyes. “We kinda suck at being broken up, huh?”

It again made Castiel wonder what he’d done that night, but it didn’t matter. He knew how he felt for Dean, and he knew what Dean had done to care for him.

“You may have a point.”

Dean rolled onto his side, too, and they were suddenly face-to-face. His eyes were roaming Castiel’s face like he was looking for something, and then he said, “Can we be _really_ sucky at it?”

Castiel knew what he was asking, and it was perhaps the worst idea either of them had ever had, but he wanted to go through with it very much. Because Dean was right there, staring at him, and it was so _easy_. He missed him so much.

He felt himself smiling gently as Dean’s hand came up to cup his jaw and run his thumb beneath Castiel’s lower lip. “I’d like that.”

They met in the space between them on the mattress, Dean’s mouth pressing against his almost shyly at first. Castiel gave him the chance to back away, to realize what he was doing and call it off. Part of him was hoping Dean would. Perhaps it would be easier. Heartbreak and rejection were of the same vein, but the latter might have been easier to swallow.

But Dean didn’t pull away. His hand was still on Castiel’s face, splayed now so that his large fingers were covering his cheek. Castiel tentatively rested his palm on Dean’s shoulder, and he slipped his feet between Dean’s ankles beneath the covers. Emboldened by that, Dean deepened the kiss, his mouth moving gently against Castiel’s, and Castiel wanted more. He parted his lips, running the tip of his tongue along the seam of Dean’s mouth, and Dean opened up to him with a soft groan. His tongue moved into Castiel’s mouth, rolling against his as slow as honey dripping from the comb.

He pulled away briefly and commented, eyebrows raised, “Minty.”

Castiel huffed out a laugh. “I brushed my teeth.” They were kissing again when Castiel rounded his hand to Dean’s chest and gently pressed him down to the mattress so he could climb on top of him. Dean spread his legs just enough for Castiel to slot their hips together, their lips never leaving each other.

Dean’s hands were on his back now, rucking up the bottom of his shirt so he could drag his palms up and down Castiel’s bare spine. Castiel felt himself getting hard under Dean’s touch, and his body automatically pressed down onto Dean. It dragged a moan from Dean’s throat that rumbled into Castiel’s mouth, and Castiel felt Dean was half-hard in his boxers, too.

He pressed down again, dragging out the motion. Dean’s fingertips dug into Castiel’s back at that, and Castiel did it again, quicker that time. Dean gasped and pulled away, panting now. Castiel buried his face into Dean’s neck, sucking at the skin there where he knew Dean was sensitive. Dean let out short, guttural noises as he writhed under Castiel. His hands moved lower to grab Castiel’s ass, and he pushed down, slotting their bodies even closer.

Castiel moved on top of him, snapping his hips and feeling Dean roll his body up to meet him. It was getting harder to find air, so he reluctantly broke away from Dean’s neck to catch his breath. They space between them was filled with ragged breathing and sharp, low moans as they picked up their speed.

“Cas,” Dean said. “Fuck— _Cas_.”

Castiel’s eyes nearly rolled back from pleasure at hearing Dean say his name like that. He let out a growling sound and went back to that spot on Dean’s neck, wanting to work it raw until it bruised. Just so Dean would have something to remember him by. Dean let out a loud sound at that, the tail end of it bitten back as he remembered how thin the walls were.

And then the world spun dizzyingly as Dean flipped them over. Castiel’s head spiked with pain and his stomach lurched, causing a sickly noise to burst out of him. Dean leaned back immediately, his eyes wide in the nighttime. “You okay? You gonna puke again?”

Castiel blinked the world back into steady focus and willed his stomach to settle. He shook his head, even though he wasn’t really sure he was being honest. A weird kind of thickness was in his throat now, and he tried to swallow it down.

“You wanna stop?” Dean asked, clearly hoping not to.

Castiel’s skin was still humming and his lips were bruised with the scratch of Dean’s stubble. His entire body was pulsing, and he was fully hard in his boxers now. The feeling of Dean under him and on top of him was too incredible, and he would not lose that so soon.

“No,” he said.

Dean hesitated, and then broke into a smile. His teeth were sparkling through the shadows. “You puke on me, I’m gonna kick your ass.” He dipped his head down and pecked a kiss to Castiel’s smile.

“You may have to,” Castiel told him. Dean only laughed and kissed him again, this time more heatedly to get themselves back on track.

Castiel ran his hands down Dean’s sides and tugged at the bottom of his t-shirt before shucking it up Dean’s back, and Dean seemed to get the message. He broke the kiss long enough to grab his shirt by the back collar and pull it over his head. Once it was gone, Castiel trailed his fingertips up and down the freckles of Dean’s back. He couldn’t see any of them, but he didn’t need to. He knew them well enough to map their constellations, well enough to find his way home by them.

Dean trailed away from his lips to nip at his jaw and mouth at the tip of Castiel’s chin, which never failed to make Castiel sigh softly with a sense of security. Dean’s fingers were under his shirt again, tickling and thumbing at his stomach before he got too impatient and helped Castiel out of it. He kissed Castiel’s chest after it was discarded, his hands on Castiel’s ribs as his open mouth sucked lines and circles. Castiel’s skin goosebumped against the ministrations, especially when Dean ran his tongue over his nipple.

He was getting lower and lower, kissing every inch of Castiel’s torso, until his head was nothing but a lump under the blankets and Castiel couldn’t see him anymore. He was mouthing around the band of Castiel’s boxers, and then he palmed at the sides of them to drag them down Castiel’s legs. Castiel could feel his heart beating in his thighs in anticipation; but then, out of nowhere, Dean just stopped.

Castiel lifted his head off the pillow and tilted it to the side in confusion. The lump of blankets that represented Dean was still. It was frustrating, and a little disconcerting, especially when he heard a shivering breath, muffled by the quilt and sheets, and Dean’s shoulders heaved.

“Dean?” he asked, concerned.

But then Dean moved again, dipping down quickly to lick a stripe up the underside of Castiel’s dick. It was unexpected, and Castiel nearly arched off the bed as a loud moan ripped from his throat—and he didn’t care. He didn’t care who he’d woken up. He didn’t care if the entire building had heard him. Dean’s mouth was on him, teasing him gently by swirling his tongue around the head, and it was completely maddening.

Castiel felt Dean kiss his hips all the way down to his knees, and suck a hickey into his inner-thigh. He felt the tip of his dick brushing Dean’s cheek every now and again, and he collapsed back onto the bed, mentally preparing himself for what was about to come.

But, really, nothing ever could prepare him for the feeling of Dean’s lips wrapping around the tip of his cock. He tried his best not to be too loud this time. It was nearly impossible when Dean sucked him down to mid-shaft. One of his hands wrapped around the base of Castiel’s erection and twisted and, with the other, he smoothed his thumb on Castiel’s balls.

It was all Castiel could do to keep his composure as Dean sucked him off. He wanted to buck his hips, but he actively forced himself not to as to not hurt Dean. His chest rose and fell with heavy breaths and his hands were grasping the fitted sheet. He wished he could look down and see Dean with his lips stretched around him, but the blanket obstructed his view, so Castiel skewed his eyes closed and furrowed his brow in intense focus.

Dean sucked him down at the way, until Castiel felt the velvety touch of the back of his throat, and he swallowed, working his muscles to massage Castiel’s dick. Castiel bit down hard as a whine came out of him. He could feel his body tightening in the beginnings of an orgasm, and he wanted relief so badly, but he also wanted to stave it off for as long as possible. He never wanted to lose the wet heat of Dean’s lips around him. If the thought of Dean blowing him was too much, the thought of Dean never doing it again was unimaginable.

But, just as Castiel was on the brink of coming, Dean pulled off with a pop. He came back up from under the covers, and Castiel wished there was enough light to see the red flush of his face and the glistening of his lips. He always looked beautiful like that—but the main concern Castiel had at the moment was _why why why_.

“ _Dean_ ,” he complained, grabbing Dean’s shoulders and trying to force him back down.

Dean laughed breathlessly. “Don’t want you comin’ yet. Got bigger plans.”

Castiel groaned and flopped back down, still weakly attempting to lower Dean again. “Make me come twice,” he said in a low voice, but the urgency of his orgasm was already fading. “I’ll return the favor.”

On top of him, Dean gave a full body shiver, but he quickly recovered. “So greedy,” he teased, and leaned in to capture Castiel’s mouth.

Castiel responded enthusiastically and wrapped his arms and legs tightly around Dean. Dean reached down and pulled at his own boxers, working them off in slow increments past his thighs until he was able to kick them off. He pressed their groins together then, moving his hips so their erections dragged together, and the feeling of it nearly knocked the wind out of Castiel.

He deepened the kiss and worked his body upwards to meet Dean’s thrusts.

Suddenly, Dean pulled away and said, “Wait, wait, wait.”

Castiel froze, dread stealing over him, sure that Dean had changed his mind about doing this. But then Dean said, “Hold that thought.” He shifted his weight to his hips as he pushed himself up by the arms and reached into his nightstand drawer. Castiel grunted loudly when Dean first pressed into him, because it almost hurt, but it also sent a shockwave throughout him right from his dick.

Dean rifled around his drawer for a few seconds, muttering in frustration, and Castiel took the time to trail his fingertips up and down Dean’s spine and lay kisses to his chest. Eventually, he found what he was looking for. He came back with a bottle of lube and a condom, and Castiel went cold. It didn’t quite kill his mood, but his heart thumped in his throat.

He knew what Dean wanted. He wanted it, too. But it would change everything. It would slow their pace. It would be meaningful. It would feel like goodbye.

And then, Castiel realized, it _was_ goodbye.

Dean pressed the condom, still in its wrapping, into Castiel’s palm, and Castiel curled his fingers around it loosely. He wanted to ask Dean if he were sure, but it would be futile. He forced a dim smile, and tore open the wrapping.

Dean rolled off of him to allow Castiel to put it on, and he opened the bottle of lube and warmed some up in his hands. He pressed another kiss to Castiel’s jaw before wrapping his fingers around his dick and working on the layer of slick moisture. Castiel closed his eyes and circled into Dean’s touch, trying to focus on not ruining the moment.

When Dean was finished, he handed the bottle to Castiel, and Castiel sat up. Dean was on his side, staring up at him, almost questioningly. The humor that had been on his face moments ago was gone. There was some hesitation radiating off of him, because he must have known what this meant. He must have known this would be the last time.

Castiel pressed a chaste kiss to his lips, and Dean accepted it willingly. He guided Dean down to lay on his stomach, and then paused to let his eyes flicker up and down the expanse of Dean’s back. He threw one leg over his to straddle his thighs, and couldn’t help himself from mouthing at Dean’s shoulder blades. He kissed reverently down Dean’s back, down to the dip of his spine and above his ass. Dean’s face was buried into the circle of his folded arms, and his shoulders rolled and tensed with pleasure.

He spread his legs a little more, expecting Castiel to work him open with his fingers, but Castiel considered it for a second. He wanted to make this good for Dean, if it really was the last time.

His gut swam nervously, and he flushed in slight embarrassment at the mere thought of what he was about to do.

Tentatively, he leaned down again, kissing open mouthed on Dean’s ass. His hands kneaded his thighs as his mouth moved to the cleft. Dean must have realized what was going on, because he lifted his ass up a little and his spine wracked in a shudder. Castiel opened him up and ran the tip of his tongue over Dean’s hole. Dean hissed, his whole body reacting.

“Son of bitch,” Castiel heard him mutter, and it boosted Castiel’s confidence.

He’d never done this before, and it was a little disgusting, if he thought about it. But he knew from personal experience how good it felt, and he wanted to give that to Dean. He worked Dean open with his tongue, spearing it and flattening it in turn as Dean writhed above him. A string of curses filled the room in between breathy sounds, and soon Dean began slowly humping the mattress. At one point, Dean brought his arm up and slapped his pillow before grabbing onto it tightly.

He wasn’t giving any telltale signs that he was about to come just yet, but Castiel didn’t want to bring him to that point. He sat back, taking in a clean breath and smacking his tongue in disbelief at what he’d done. He didn’t think he would have done it for anyone but Dean.

But, that was his general consensus regarding sex.

Pushing those thoughts to the side, he squirted the lube into his hand and warmed it. Dean’s body slackened as he relaxed into Castiel’s fingers working him open, and that time Castiel did want to get him close to completion. He put in one finger, and heard Dean give a sharp gasp of pleasure before working him open enough to add another digit. He hooked his fingers inside of Dean and fucked them in and out slowly, listening to the low groans Dean let out. Dean started rolling back into him. When he let out a hum, Castiel knew he was getting close. He always did that when they were going slow, before his muscles began to stiffen and his breaths came out choppy.

Castiel withdrew his fingers, ignoring Dean’s grunt of protest. He touched Dean’s arm, silently telling him to roll onto his side, and then he fit himself behind Dean, pressing his chest to Dean’s back. He slipped his thigh in between Dean’s and wrapped his arm around Dean’s torso. Dean placed his arm on top of his, his hand resting on the back of Castiel’s.

Castiel lined them up and slowly pushed inside. Dean’s breath cut off, and he grunted through what sounded like gritted teeth. Castiel’s body wanted so badly to pull out and snap back in, but he forced himself to wait until Dean gave him the okay. He could barely stop the moan that escaped him at the feeling of Dean’s tight heat around him again. He hooked his teeth around Dean’s shoulder, closing his eyes to listen to the short, choppy grunts Dean was sounding off.

It took a long moment, and Castiel was practically shaking by the time Dean sunk back onto him, giving him a little nudge to make him start moving.

Castiel went slow, thrusting in and out as Dean’s body moved to meet him. He realized their fingers were laced over Dean’s stomach, and he didn’t really know when that happened. He pressed his lips to the back of Dean’s neck, kissing along his hairline and nibbling at his earlobe. Dean shivered at that, and he let out a low, long sound.

“Missed you,” Dean gulped out.

Castiel wanted to tell him that he missed him, too—that he would miss him for the rest of his life. And he wanted to tell him he loved him, that he would always love him, that he wanted him more than anything and he was so sorry and, if it were up to him, they would be together. And he wanted this so badly not to feel like goodbye.

He didn’t. He stayed quiet and listened to Dean breathing, afraid Dean would pull away if he said anything.

They worked into a rhythm, still slow but more even and less deliberate. Dean pulled Castiel’s hand down to wrap around his dick, and they worked together to jack him off. Dean’s body moved back and forth between their hands and Castiel’s dick. He squeezed his muscles around Castiel, and Castiel had to latch his teeth onto Dean’s shoulder again to keep from crying out. In front of him, the near constant sounds Dean was making were almost enough to send Castiel over the edge.

Castiel changed his angle a little, and Dean sucked in a breath. “Fuck, Cas—there. Oh, God,” Dean said, his voice strained and fucked out and beautiful. Castiel thrust a little deeper, his hips moving on their own, and it didn’t take long to bottom out. “Faster, Cas, come on.”

Castiel quickened his pace, both of them letting out a constant stream of breathy sounds. He sucked on the back of Dean’s neck, making the bruise there darker and deeper. He brought his other hand up to wrap gently around Dean’s throat, applying a slight pressure, and he felt the vibrations when Dean keened out a moan.

“Dean— _ah_ ,” was all he could really say, even though there was so much more. He wanted to tell Dean that he was beautiful and perfect and lovely and that he was the love of Castiel’s life. That there would never be another.

“ _Babe_ ,” Dean breathed, and Castiel almost sobbed. He heard Dean sniff in a sharp breath, and it was shaky when he let it out—but that could have been anything. Castiel forced himself not to read into it.

The movement of their bodies started to get more irregular, and Castiel felt his balls tighten. He thrust into Dean choppily, and Dean was giving off those humming sounds again. Castiel took his hand away from Dean’s dick so he wouldn’t squeeze him too hard, letting Dean jerk himself off as Castiel scrambled for purchase on his chest.

Dean’s breaths were panting now, and his whole body was coiling around Castiel. His arm worked faster as he jerked off. Castiel tipped his forehead into the center of Dean’s shoulders, and tilted his face swiftly to press a kiss to the top knob of his spine.

Dean shuddered as he came, and Castiel continued to thrust into him until his own orgasm hit—blinding and comfortable and wonderful. And Dean’s name was on his lips.

They rode out the shockwaves together, until the last of them died away, and Castiel was left boneless as he softened inside of Dean. His arm was still slung limply over Dean’s side.

After a moment, Dean sighed happily, and Castiel pulled back slightly to get himself out of Dean; but Dean responded by sidling back to slot their bodies together. His hand found Castiel’s again on his stomach. It was a little sticky and wet with Dean’s come, but Castiel didn’t really mind. Nor did he mind how uncomfortable the full condom was. He wanted to stay like this, with Dean, just laying there, for as long as possible.

It felt like hours had passed before Dean looked over his shoulder to meet Castiel’s eyes. Castiel smiled at him, and leaned in for a kiss. Dean laughed and said, “Nasty ass mouth.” But he didn’t seem to mind very much, because he kissed Castiel open mouthed.

When it broke, he rolled onto his back and sat up in bed, wincing slightly. He went back into his nightstand and felt around for his wipes. Meanwhile, Castiel pulled off the condom, and they got to cleaning themselves. Dean tossed the discarded items towards the trashcan on the other side of the room, but they didn’t quite land. He shrugged, apparently not worried about it, even though it was gross.

He laid back down again, one arm outstretched so Castiel could curl against his side.

“Ya know,” he said as he fixed the blankets to cover their chests, “I think we still got it, Cas.”

Castiel hummed and looked up at him, and Dean’s eyes were shining. “I think so,” he agreed. Dean beamed at that, and pushed his head forward to press a kiss to Castiel’s lips. Castiel let his eyes slip closed into it, savoring the tenderness of it.

As Dean leaned away, Castiel said, “Dean—.” He hadn’t meant to. He didn’t even know how he would follow it up. It had just been pulled from his lips, chasing after Dean’s mouth.

Dean seemed to understand, though, because he didn’t ask for clarification. “Only want you, babe,” he answered, and the words were so sweet and familiar that they lodged in between Castiel’s ribs and wound so tightly around them that he’d need a needle to pick them loose.

Dean settled back against the pillow, and Castiel readjusted his head on him.

As Castiel lay there, his ear pressed to Dean’s shoulder, listening to his steadying heartbeat, Dean’s mouth pressed to the crown of his head, he couldn’t help the mixture of emotions that swept over him. Happiness, contentedness, depression, anger. He didn’t want to leave. He didn’t want the night to end. He wanted to die there, before the morning light, so he wouldn’t ever have to leave Dean’s arms. So he wouldn’t have to pretend that he could handle life without Dean in it.

But he had to remind himself that this was for Dean. To keep him safe. It was worth it. It had to be worth it.

It didn’t matter what Castiel wanted.

After some time, he realized Dean had drifted off to sleep. He glanced up, watching Dean rest peacefully, and moved upwards to press a lingering kiss to the base of Dean’s jaw. When he pulled away, he saw Dean smile slightly in sleep, and a weird compression crushed Castiel’s chest.

He rested his head back down, and pretended the morning would never come.

///

Dean was still asleep, spread out on his stomach and hugging his pillow. He was snoring softly, in the way he did when he was in a deep sleep. The blankets were still a mess, one end of the fitted sheet snapped off the corners and the quilt bunched up at the bottom. One of Dean’s legs was bent at the knee beneath the blankets, and the other was straight so his foot stuck out from mid-calf downward. His toes were off the mattress, brushing the hardwood floor. The freckles on his shoulders were paled by the gray light of the morning.

It had started to rain some time in the night. The breeze coming through the window and rattling the slanted and broken blinds smelled of petrichor. At times, stray droplets misted into the room through the screen. It was nearly 6:30 AM, and Dean would be awake in an hour or so.

Castiel couldn't really sleep the previous night. He drifted in and out, and had woken up twenty minutes ago with the need to throw up again. Thankfully, he hadn’t woken Dean that time, and he was able to make it to the bathroom. His stomach felt heavy and empty at the same time, and his head ached dully as he squinted in the barely there sunlight. The only thing Castiel wanted to do was crawl back in bed with Dean and stay there for the rest of the morning, the rest of the day—the rest of their lives.

But a person's life can be broken up into the things they wanted and the things they could have. And, if they were very lucky, those things were one and the same. Castiel had never been that lucky.

He packed up his clothes that were in Dean's dresser. He stuffed them into the backpack he'd originally brought them over in that had been collecting dust in the corner of Dean's room. He worked quietly, slowly, cautiously looking over his shoulder every time Dean's breathing pattern changed. His gut was twisting for reasons different than exhaustion or his hangover now, and his spine kept rattling, but he knew it wasn't just the wind-chill.

When the bottom drawer was empty, Castiel zipped up the backpack as soundlessly as possible, and then he stayed crouched on the floor for a long time, doing his best to calm his nerves. He'd been moving at a snail's pace as to not wake Dean, yes, but he also wanted to linger for as long as possible. Half of him actually wanted to Dean to catch him, that way he'd have an excuse to stay.

He knew he was taking the coward's way out, but he wasn't sure if he could break up with Dean a second time. His resolve would crumble. He was already having trouble ignoring the little voice in his head attempting to convince him that Michael would never find out about them if they were careful.

He couldn't live like that, constantly looking over his shoulder; and he couldn't risk Dean and Sam's lives. The Winchesters deserved better than that.

He sighed, turning his eyes heaven bound to ask for strength, but what good had that ever done? He had to meet his siblings at church in a few hours, and he was beginning to think Dean was right: it was just a waste of time.

He threw one strap of the backpack over his shoulder and stood up, forcing himself not to look at Dean as he went to the nightstand and sifted through the drawer for something to write with. There was an old leather bound journal at the bottom of the drawer. Castiel paused, his fingers hovering over the book. He didn't know Dean kept a journal. He was more than tempted to open it up and skim the last few entries, the selfish part of him desperate to know if Dean still loved him, and the masochistic part wanting to beat himself up over how much he’d hurt him. He resisted the urge, and instead flipped to the very back page, carefully tearing it out. There was a pen in the journal's binding, and he quickly scribbled a note—just two severely lacking words—and replaced both items in the drawer.

He'd already folded up the AC/DC shirt Dean had lent him and placed it on the floor next to the bed, so he halved the note once and set it on top of the fabric. Next, he fished in his pocket for his keys, and didn't allow himself a second to think as he took the spare key to the Winchester's apartment off the metal ring. He set it next to the note.

And then he was done.

There was nothing else to do.

He thought he'd be sick.

He allowed himself one more look at Dean, just watching him sleep peacefully. His shoulders rose and fell with shallow breaths, and the hickey Castiel had sucked into his neck the night before was discoloring into a bruise, stark against his skin in the foggy light.

He was beautiful. Castiel wanted to run his fingers through Dean's soft hair, to kiss his lips gently until those green eyes blinked awake and focused on him. They would be striking and golden-emerald in the silver light of the overcast morning. He wanted to see Dean smile again. Every muscle in his body itched forward.

He clenched his fists, keeping them firmly at his sides, and overlooked how the hollow feeling in his stomach had moved to his chest as he made for the door. He opened it just enough to squeeze through it, and then slowly shut it once he was in the hall.

He allowed himself to breathe, knowing he was in the clear, even though he didn't feel any sense of relief. But then a floorboard at the end of the hall creaked, and Castiel sucked in a sharp breath, turning towards the newcomer like a deer in the headlights.

"Cas?" Sam asked, confused. He was fully dressed, looking as though he was just getting back in. He must have been at Eileen's last night.

His timing couldn't have been any worse.

"Sam."

Sam's eyes flickered from him to Dean's door, and something cautiously hopeful flashed in his expression. "Are you two—?"

"No," Castiel answered quickly, before Sam could finish his thought. He looked down at his shoes and readjusted the strap of his backpack, then clutched it for reassurance. He was doing the right thing. It was worth it.

"I was just . . ." He didn't have an excuse. "I have to go." Keeping his eyes down, he strode past Sam, who quickly flattened his back against the wall to let Castiel through. He had every intention of continuing on, to not stop for anything.

And then Sam Winchester said, "Cas, wait."

Castiel stopped immediately, but didn't turn around. Something thick was clawing its way up his throat. He told himself he would not cry.

Behind him, Sam let out a breath. "Look, I don't really know what happened between you guys. I mean, I know Dean's side of the story—and you don't have to tell me yours if you don't want to. But . . . If you ever need anything—you'll call, right?"

Castiel's fist tightened on his strap, and he steeled his jaw. He half-looked over his shoulder, and Sam was just a blur in his periphery.

Sam sounded so earnest, so compassionate, it made Castiel's eyes sting. "I'll pick up. I promise," Sam told him. "I still think you're one of us."

Castiel didn't know what that meant, but it made his gut twist sickly. He belonged somewhere. Wasn't that supposed to feel good?

He couldn't think of a single thing to say except, "I'm sorry, Sam." He meant it. "Tell Dean . . ." Tell him what? There wasn't anything Castiel could say to remedy this. He'd only worsen the situation.

He faced forward, and pulled his shoulders back into a straighter line. Forcing calm and gathering his courage, he said simply, "Goodbye."

He left.

///

Cas had a pretty great dick.

Dean had seen a few in his day, and he was pretty sure Cas had the best dick in the world, but maybe he was biased because of all the awesome stuff it did to him. And maybe because it was attached to the dude he was crazy about.

The first thing Dean noticed when he woke up was how much his ass hurt—hell, every muscle from his torso to his knees hurt. But he didn't even care. Because he'd slept better than he had in weeks, and the rest of him was relaxed and comfortable.

There was a little bit of a chill nipping at the bare skin of his shoulders, and his toes were a little numb with the cold, but that didn't bother him much either. He was cool with staying in bed all day, especially now that him and Cas were an item again.

There was a gentle murmuring of voices outside his door, the steady sounds of them pulling him incrementally into consciousness. It was early. It felt early, anyway. Dean wanted to keep sleeping. He groaned, eyes still closed as he rolled onto his back, wincing a little at the spike of dull pain it caused. He heard the front door open and close.

His stomach felt a little empty, and he realized he hadn't eaten dinner last night. All he’d had were those fries. Maybe he could whip them up something for breakfast before going back to sleep. Something greasy. Cas would need it for his hangover.

"Cas?" he yawned.

No answer. He was probably still asleep. Maybe Dean would surprise him with breakfast in bed.

He blinked his eyes open to Cas' side of the bed, but all his eyes focused on was the blank wall. He blinked, not really understanding, but the chill in his toes was beginning to seep up to the rest of his body.

He sat up, groaning at the burning pain in his ass and the soreness in his abs before it dulled into something manageable. He looked across the room, expecting to find Cas there. He was alone.

Something on the floor next to his bed caught his eyes. The shirt Cas had been wearing was folded up neatly on the floor, a piece of lined paper on top of it. And there was—oh, fuck. Dean's house key.

Dean lunged towards the paper, and he must have been a glutton for punishment because he flipped it open, expecting to see some kind of sappy, five-paragraph break up note in Cas' handwriting. But there were only two words.

_Thank you._

Dean swallowed, and realized he was grinding his teeth. He clutched his fist, making the paper ball up and crinkle. It was easier to get mad—to get pissed.

He'd heard voices. He'd heard the door close. That meant Cas was still close. Dean had to go after him. He had no idea what he'd do when he caught up with him—kiss him or beat the living shit out of him—but he'd make a game time decision.

He sprang out of bed, tearing through the sheets in search of his boxers. He slipped them on, not really caring that they were backwards, and nearly stumbled as he ripped his bedroom door open.

Sam was in the hall, staring towards the living room where the front door was. He startled a little when Dean rushed out of his room, guns blazing.

"Where the hell is he?" Dean demanded, voice low and splintered—from sleep, he told himself, even though he was wide awake now. Adrenaline burned like rubber through his veins.

Sam blinked. He held up his hand like a barrier, as if he could stop Dean, and said in a calming voice, "Dean—."

"Where the hell is he, Sam?"

Dean tried to push forward, not waiting for an answer and meaning to rush down the stairs full speed until he caught up with Cas. But Sam grabbed him by the arm and forced him back.

"Let go of me," Dean ordered, trying to rip out of Sam's grip. Sam only tightened his hold.

"Let him go."

Dean couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Let him—?"

"He'll figure it out, okay, Dean? But you gotta give him time."

Dean blanched at his brother, and then towards the front door. His anger was dwindling, making room for guilt and sadness to seep back in. They'd been so close—so fucking close. If Dean had just woken up a few minutes earlier . . .

"Did he say anything?" Dean asked, hating the way his voice cracked down the middle. But he refused to believe Cas would just abandon him without saying anything—something more than a fucking two-word note. Cas would give him some reason to keep hope alive. Right?

"Nothing he meant," Sam assured him.

Dean tore his arm away. "Sam," he warned. Whatever it was, Dean had to know. He wanted to know.

Sam shot him big, sympathetic eyes, and Dean's heart dropped before Sam even said anything. He knew what his brother would say before he even opened his mouth.

Sam sighed sadly. "He said, goodbye."

Dean stared at him, numb from the tips of his fingers to the soles of his feet now. The word bounced around the inside of his head like an echo in a cavern.

And then he saw red.

He needed to punch something, and the closest thing to him was Sam. He somehow managed to keep himself from clocking his brother. He rushed away, back into his room, and slammed his door behind him so hard, the frame cracked. He stomped over to his dresser and pulled out the bottom drawer, meaning to take all of Cas' clothes, along with that stupid fucking note and all of the blankets on Dean's bed, and put them in the sink to light them on fire.

The drawer pulled out easier than he'd expected it to, and he accidentally caused it to fly right out of the dresser. Wide-eyed and panting, he looked into it, and found it empty.

Cas really left him. He was really gone.

"Son of a bitch . . ." he whispered, the words coming out thick like a sob. He hated it. He didn't want to cry. He didn't want to feel this way. He braced himself, forcing the emotions to more familiar territory. "Son of bitch!" he yelled, and threw the drawer against the wall. The cheap wood splintered upon impact, making the bottom pop out and one corner break apart, and left a dent in the wall that coughed plaster.

Dean stared at the hole, and decided he was done. That was it. No more. No more Novaks. No more Cas. No more missing him. He was over it. He was moving on. Starting now.

He was done.


	16. Chapter 16

"For the last time, douchebag, the answer's no."

Dean was sitting in the ratty old wheelie chair behind the desk in the office of Bobby's garage. He was leaning back as far as the chair would allow, which wasn’t very far since the back of it jammed up forever ago, and his feet were crossed and resting on the bottom drawer of the desk he'd toed open with his boot. It was his lunch break, and his sad, soggy ham and Cheetos sandwich that he'd brought from home was sitting atop an off-brand Ziplock baggie on the scratched, smudged glass that covered the dozens of local business cards Bobby had on display on the desk.

His phone was next to the sandwich, the call on speaker with the contact ID _Don't Pick Up_ displayed on the screen. He always picked up.

"Come on, darling," Crowley said, voice filtering like smoke through the speaker and mixing with the classic rock station playing Billy Joel on low volume in the corner of the shop. "Don't tell me you let that frizzy haired police officer scare you away."

Dean rolled his eyes and picked up his sandwich. He'd managed to take a one-quarter bite out of it before Crowley had called him. In the corner of the room, Rumsfeld hopefully lifted his giant head off of the hair-covered doggie bed and gave Dean a begging look, like he did every time anyone picked up food while he was present. Usually, Dean made the dog go outside while he was on his break, but he took pity on him. Thick, wet chunks of snow were falling from the sky, collecting into another foot on the heap already on the ground. The road that Bobby's garage was on was completely empty; and the only vehicle Dean had seen on it all day was the snowplow that came through once, the salt it left in its wake not doing much to combat the mid-December weather.

Needless to say, it had been a slow day. No one in their right mind was on the roads right now, except for Bobby, who'd taken the tow truck to haul some poor bastard's car back to the shop about an hour ago.

"No," Dean told Crowley, because he had a reputation to uphold; but, truth be told, he'd rather not get arrested again for smuggling drugs. He didn't think he'd get a third chance, and he definitely didn't have any Get Out of Jail Free cards left in his stack.

But it was more than that. His main reason was this: "I ain't working for the Novaks anymore. How many times do I gotta say that?"

Crowley's sigh was tinny, but no less dramatic, over the line. "How very noble of you. But shall I remind you that it's a fool's errand? Everyone in this whole bloody town works for them."

"I don't," Dean maintained, and he was right. He didn't. Bobby still owned the garage, and Ellen owned Harvelle's. He'd meant it when he said he was done with everything Cas-related, and he was kind of proud of sticking to that promise. In the week after the homecoming game, Dean had pretty much purged his life of Cas. He washed all his bed sheets, threw out the gross healthy cereals Cas liked to eat, deleted all the pictures of the two of them off his phone. Hell, he deleted Cas' number, which was more or less symbolic since that line was disconnected anyway, and he’d held his breath when he erased their text conversation. He'd even gone as far as scrubbing down the apartment to make sure none of Cas' hair was collecting into dust in the corners. He'd gone through a whole thing of bleach.

He pawned his goddamn watch.

Because, yeah, they needed the money, and a Rolex came with a pretty high resale value. The fact that they needed more cash was the reason Dean always picked up Crowley's calls, because it was always tempting, and he was hoping that one day Crowley would tell him there was a non-Novak-related job Dean could do for him. There never was, so Dean's answer was always the same.

Besides, Sam would kill him if he found out Dean was even considering it as an option again. He was still pretty busy with school and his job at the law firm, which Dean was less than thrilled about, but his old job at the motel let him come back on the weekends to work maintenance. Sam was usually bone-tired at the end of every day, and he didn't bring in too much more money, but it was something. Now that Christmas break was coming up, he'd be able to pick up a few more shifts, which was great because they were behind on rent.

At least Dad was supposed to send a check at the end of the week with his holiday bonus. Until then, it was all Ramen Noodles and thick socks instead of turning the heater up for them.

But, no, Dean wasn't about to sink as low as driving for the Novaks again. Those days were done.

Dean hadn't even seen Cas since homecoming night. And that was good. It was better that way.

Sometimes, Dean thought he saw him. He'd see a flash of someone wearing a tan trench coat walking down the street and his heart would seize up. Or that one time he was in the grocery store and some guy with wild dark hair turned into the canned foods aisle, and for a split second, everything inside of him lurched with the desire to rush up to the guy and kiss him.

Every time Dean saw anything blue, he'd get a stomachache.

It fucking sucked. It had been months and he was still so fucking gone.

And it didn't matter. Because Cas never came back.

And, no matter how much purging he did, Dean just couldn't stop thinking about him. He didn't think anything would ever stop him from doing that—except maybe that machine from _Eternal Sunshine_ , which would be awesome if that shit actually existed.

There was movement outside the front window of the office, and Dean glanced up to see Bobby's tow truck pulling into the lot, its giant wheels cutting through the thick snow beneath.

"Fine, but don't think this offer will be on the table once we hang up," Crowley threatened. "Going once . . ."

The truck turned so that it was parallel with the office, and Dean caught sight of the familiar brown pick up truck angled on a slat behind it like a fish on a hook, its front grill hooked up to the giant chain. Dean blinked at it, and tried to convince himself he was just seeing things.

"Going twice . . ."

Cas' truck was still there when Dean opened his eyes again.

"Bye, Crowley," he said, and hung up on him. He got up from his chair and crossed the desk, stuffing the rest of his sandwich into his mouth in two large bites. The Cheetos crunched loudly in his ears, and the giant lump was a little hard to swallow, but that could have been from the rock that formed in his throat. He couldn't take his eyes off the truck. When he plucked his leather jacket off the coat rack by the door and shrugged into it, Rumsfeld looked up again with interest, but not enough interest to get off his ass and combat the gust of wind that blew through the small room when Dean opened the door.

The tow truck's brakes screeched when Bobby stopped it and put it in park. Behind it, Cas' Ford shuddered and came to a halt.

"What's the matter?" Dean shouted when the driver's door opened and Bobby poked his head out. He didn't know why he was talking so loudly. The world around them was silent, every sound muffled by the snow that crunched under Dean's boots as he trudged forward. He threw out his arms in question. Seeing that truck was like a slap to the face, even more painful than the wind chill currently biting into his cheeks and making his nose run. "The damn thing break down again?"

Figures. Cas had no idea how to take care of the truck. Dean was always the one working on it. The thought of that wasn't supposed to make his chest ache fondly with nostalgia.

Bobby shook his head, snowflakes already collecting on the rim on his hat. "Running perfect, actually," he said, voice echoing slightly in the gray air. "'Cept for that clicking sound's back again. Other'n that, you managed to keep it off life support. Don't know how you did it."

Dean was a little proud of that, but he shoved that feeling to the side because what did he care if the truck was still running? He just wanted it out of his sight. It was too much of a reminder of Cas. Just when he thought he'd gotten rid of everything related to Cas, the universe threw this in his face. "Then why am I looking at it?" he huffed impatiently.

"The Novaks sold it to me," Bobby answered casually.

Dean's brows shot up in surprise—no, _shock_. What did Michael do, tie Cas down and drug him? That was the only way Cas would let go of his truck. He was always so stubborn about that thing.

At least, he had been. Dean didn't really know anymore. He didn't like thinking about Michael stealing away the last thing Cas had that was just his, but at the same time, Cas was letting it happen. He was willingly rolling over and letting his brothers run the show. And Dean guessed that included getting rid of his old clunker.

It was either that or Cas was full on guzzling the Kool-Aid.

Dean didn't know which option he hated more.

"They what?"

"Yeah, some secretary," Bobby said. "They basically gave it away, too. I figured we could use it for spare parts."

Dean shoved his hands into his pockets, trying to warm up his fingers in their linings. His entire face had gone numb, and the cold was seeping through his jeans and past his thighs, getting right into his bones and muscles; but he was starting to think it had nothing to do with the snow now.

He couldn't stand the thought of ripping that truck apart until it was nothing but a rusted frame buried among all the others in the scrap yard.

He nodded, and swallowed back the stinging that had suddenly sprang up behind his eyes. "Yeah, okay."

Bobby remained still for a second, just staring at Dean as he stood half-in and half-out of the door. "You okay, boy?"

For a split second, Dean wanted to say no. He cleared his throat and readjusted his legs, trying to get the blood moving in them again. "Yeah, why wouldn't I be?" he told his boots as he toed at the fine powder quickly compacting into a sheet of ice.

Bobby didn't say anything. He just eyed Dean for another moment before he patted the truck's door and got back inside. The engine revved as he drove its massive girth around the building, towards the scrap yard. Dean watched Cas' truck jerk along behind it, the falling snow sliding down the flatbed and piling up against the inside hatch.

He thought about the one time between summer and fall semester, when the bugs were still buzzing around and the air was still bone dry, when he and Cas drove out to an empty field outside of town after midnight to do some stargazing; but they'd ended up making out, sprawled out on top of each other in that flatbed the entire time, instead.

He tore his eyes away from the truck, and told himself not to think about that sort of stuff.

Yeah, it'd be great if science started working on that memory-wiping technology ASAP. Because Dean didn’t know how to mourn for someone who was still alive. Everything in him told him to fight, even though there was nothing left to fight for, and maybe that was the hardest part about all of this.

He peered back out at the road, which was indistinguishable from the parking lot under all the white at this point. There was an old jalopy idling there. It was a hideous muted rust color, with one door replaced with one that came from a black car. The tailpipe spit out a plum of thick gray smoke onto the snow, and Dean wondered how he hadn't noticed the smell of it before. It reeked of burning rubber and—something else. It was almost like rotten eggs. It got trapped in Dean's nostrils, and he sniffed, trying to get rid of it, but all it did was make him lightheaded.

There was a man inside the car, his silhouette prominent in the driver's seat. He appeared to be looking right at Dean. Dean didn't know why, but it made him uncomfortable as hell.

He told himself not to be a wuss, and ignored his instincts. He approached the car, leaving boot tracks in his wake as he walked. The guy inside the car was probably a customer, if the state of his vehicle was anything to go by. Dean couldn't imagine what the engine looked like, but he guessed he was about to have his luck cut out for him.

As he got closer, his boots sank into the snow banks that piled up on the covered sidewalk separating the road from the parking lot. He was almost shin-deep in it now, the wet cold of the snow soaking through his jeans and causing a burning sensation. The man inside rolled down the passenger side window, and Dean ducked down to talk to him.

The guy was thin—really thin, almost emaciated with how his cheekbones stuck out on his face—and he had these weird bug eyes. He smiled at Dean with yellowing teeth, and the only way Dean could describe that grin was _sharp_.

The inside of the car was clean, nothing on the seats or floor, but it smelled stale like cigarette smoke. The cloths of the seats were ripped up in places, like someone had dragged a knife through them. And, even though Dean was standing outside the car, he could feel the dry heat cranking through the rattling vents. It blasted onto his face like a thousand tiny needles on his flesh with how quickly it took away the chill.

"You looking for an appointment?" he asked the man.

"An appointment? Hmm. No," he said in a nasally voice. "Actually, I think I'm a little lost." He pointed a knobby finger at Dean. "Maybe you can help. I'm trying to find Overland Drive. You got any idea where that is?"

Dean tensed his jaw warily. He knew Overland. It was the street Harvelle's was on. But it was probably just a coincidence. He tried to shake away the weird feeling in his gut, but this dude gave him the creeps.

"Head west on 40 'til you pass a place called Hunter's Ridge. You'll wanna make a left on Stoneridge."

The man looked out his windshield, the wipers whining like a dying animal as they fought the onslaught of snow. He nodded, and then turned his eyes back on Dean. They flickered up and down Dean's face in a way that Dean didn't much care for, and then a grin spread onto the man's face.

"Why, such a helpful young man, aren’t we? Thank you very much," he said.

Dean tried not to gulp nervously. "Sure," he said gruffly, and straightened out. He just wanted the man to leave.

As the window rolled up again, the man said, "See you around." He made it sound more like a promise than a casual farewell. And then the car was driving off, puffing and sputtering as it jostled from side to side in the snow. The tires cut through the white, leaving behind kicked up tracks of mottled black on the snow banks. The exhaust followed after it, fouling the air.

Dean felt his spine rattle, and told himself it was from the cold. His cheeks were starting to numb again. He turned around and headed back towards the warmth of the office.

///

Jack squirmed around in Castiel’s hold through the entire elevator ride to the top floor of the Evangelist office. His giant, puffy coat was making him a few pounds heavier than normal, and Castiel was having difficulty keeping him perched on his hip.

“I don’t _wanna_ be here. I thought we were gonna build a snowman!” Claire whined, tugging on Castiel’s hand in an attempt to escape—he didn’t know to where, though. They were in a confined space.

“I wanna make a snow angel!” Jack exclaimed, bouncing eagerly so Castiel had to readjust him to keep him from slipping.

“We will,” he said, and then, for emphasis, looked down at Claire. “We _will_. I just need to meet with my brother quickly.”

Castiel had just picked up the children when Hannah called him, telling him that Michael wanted to see him right away. He couldn’t imagine what was so urgent, just like he had no idea what Michael wanted. They rarely spoke one-on-one anymore, and Castiel was happy to keep it that way.

He was even more annoyed because he’d promised to take the children to the new park. It was still snowing, and they were antsy to jump into the fresh piles to play. He felt bad delaying that further, but this was the deal he’d made with Michael. Obey, or else.

“But, _Cas_ ,” Claire complained.

“Cas!” Jack echoed in the same tone.

They’d taken to calling him that because of Dean. They asked about him all the time. Whenever he saw them, they pouted about Dean not joining. Castiel finally had to tell them that Dean wouldn’t be coming around anymore, and Jack had sobbed. Castiel wished he could cry, too.

“Enough, both of you,” he said, putting on the stern tone that usually quieted them.

Claire sulked, putting her free hand on her hip over her bright navy winter coat that made her look as round as a blueberry. “Dean would have taken us,” she murmured.

Castiel opened his mouth to scold her, but the elevator doors slid open with the ding at that very moment, opening up to the row of cubicles and office workers. He decided not to make a scene. He tugged on her arm to get her to follow as he walked down the row towards Michael’s sequestered office.

A few people waved hello, and tried to stop him so they could gawk at how “adorable” the children were. He almost told them that they could have them; but he pushed on until he got to Hannah’s desk. She greeted him with a smile, and said, “Oh, you have the kids. Sorry, I didn’t know. You’re not . . .” Her eyes flickered to Michael’s closed door next to her desk, and she seemed a little worried. “You’re not going to bring them inside, are you?”

Castiel hadn’t planned on doing that. He didn’t assume Michael would like that very much, but he honestly didn’t know. He had no clue whether or not his brother liked children.

“No,” he said with an exasperated breath. “Do you mind if I leave them out here with you?” He felt badly saddling her with them, but he had nowhere else to put them. Evangelist didn’t have a daycare room on site, and he didn’t have any ideas.

Her smile became a little tight, but she nodded. “Sure,” she said like she really didn’t want to do it, but it was her job to help. “You can go in. He’s waiting for you.”

“Thank you.”

Castiel bent down and placed Jack on the floor next to Claire. He dropped to one knee and readjusted Jack’s hat and scarf where they’d become lopsided. It was warmer in the building than it was outside by far, and he hoped they wouldn’t overheat while he was in his meeting. With any luck, though, it wouldn’t take that long.

“Listen to Hannah,” he told them pointedly. “I’ll be right back.”

“I have to potty,” Jack told him matter-of-factly, because he always picked the most inopportune moments to mention that.

Castiel _really_ wished Dean were there to help him. He’d forgotten how much of a handful they could be for one person, and he felt severely outnumbered.

He sighed. “Can you wait until I get back?”

Jack thought about it for a second, and then nodded. Relieved, Castiel picked himself off the floor, thanked Hannah again, grabbed the knob to the office door, took a breath to steel himself, and pushed inside.

Michael was typing something on his computer, and when he glanced up a polite smile came to his face. “Castiel, good. Have a seat. I’ll only be a second.”

Castiel closed the door and moved further into the office. He hesitated momentarily on the beige rug, halfway between the door and the desk. He didn’t know if Michael wanted him to sit on the couch or at one of the chairs in front of the desk. It took a second to make up his mind, but he decided to go to the desk. Sitting at the couch would only make Michael stand up, walk around his desk, and pull up a chair to sit facing Castiel, and all of that would take time. Seconds, yes, but Castiel didn’t want to be there a moment longer than he had to.

He waited, sitting up straight, his spine not touching the back of the leather chair, and his hands folded on his lap. His eyes drifted to the window behind Michael, where snow continued to flutter downwards to blanket the town. It wasn’t falling as quickly as it had been before, which was a good thing because the roads were treacherous, even if the snowplow had come through the roads near campus and downtown a few times.

Besides, he was still getting used to the sleek Lexus sedan Michael had presented him with a few weeks ago, “as an early Christmas gift.” It felt like driving a computer, and Castiel had no idea what most of the buttons did. It had taken him ten minutes just to find the ignition, until he realized it was keyless. Every time he got in, he half expected the car to start driving on his own, taking him wherever Michael wanted him to be. He wouldn’t have been surprised if the locks clicked, trapping him inside until he reached the destination.

The ride was smoother than it had been on his truck; but he felt way too close to the ground, and that the wheels would slip out from under him at any moment. The engine didn’t make a sound, either, and every time he turned the car on, a sense of wrongness came over him. He never thought he’d miss the sputtering or the clicking of his truck.

And it didn’t have a tape deck. Maybe that was the worst part. Music just sounded better on cassette tapes.

But what was he supposed to do? Refuse the car? That would never fly. Castiel had to represent the company, and his truck had been an eyesore, apparently. This car was much more appropriate to his family’s standing. So, he’d relinquished his truck and had no idea what happened to it. It was probably at some scrap heap, already crushed and stripped down into nothing.

He tried not to think about it so much. Every time he did, he felt like a bird with clipped wings.

Michael hit one last key with a loud clack of finality. “There,” he said, and turned his attention to Castiel.

Castiel pulled his shoulders back more, if that were even possible.

“Thank you for coming in on such short notice. I know you weren’t scheduled to be here today,” Michael said, as if Castiel had a choice. He was at his brother’s beck and call for the foreseeable future—possibly even the rest of his life.

“Why _am_ I here?” he asked, trying not to let his annoyance show. He thought he failed. It was harder than he’d anticipated, keeping his attitude out of his tone when asking such a question. Perhaps he should have worded it differently.

“Naomi and I have been discussing the Novak Park and Recreation Center. We’re looking for ways to keep the community active in the park, so we’ve decided to host a fair there come springtime,” Michael explained, and Castiel didn’t know what any of that had to do with him. He didn’t know why it was so urgent, either, considering spring was still months away and there was currently a foot and a half of snow on the ground.

He kept his thoughts to himself, waiting for Michael to go on.

“I know you want to take a more active role in our community outreach programs here at Evangelist,” Michael continued.

Castiel made a soft, surprised noise. “You do?” He hadn’t meant to interrupt, but he didn’t think Michael paid that much attention to him to know his areas of interest.

Michael blinked, seeming slightly frustrated at being cut off. He shrugged out his palms on the desk as if this knowledge were obvious. “Of course,” he said without explaining. “As I was saying—this fair may be the perfect opportunity to integrate you more fully into the company’s day-to-day. I want you to be lead on the project planning.”

Out of all the things Michael could have called Castiel in for, he hadn’t been expecting this. His heart rate picked up slightly, and he realized he was nervous. He didn’t know how to orchestrate a fair. He couldn’t even remember the last fair he’d been to. What did it entail? Games? Rides? Performances? Would he have to hire a band? He was in way over his head.

As if understanding Castiel’s trepidation, Michael said, “Of course, you can use whatever resources you see fit. If you’d like to hire temporary freelancers to form a committee, you may do so.”

 _Freelancers._ Castiel would be able to ask his friends to help. Thank God. Balthazar would probably jump at the opportunity to be paid, and he wasn’t so certain Meg would be too excited about helping, but he might be able to persuade her.

He wished he could ask the Winchesters. Dean and Charlie would have been all over this, and Sam and Eileen would be strong voices of reason to balance out their extravagant ideas of ten hundred hot air balloons and a Led Zeppelin cover band.

The thought alone caused a twang in Castiel’s chest, and he promptly forced himself to stop thinking of his old friends.

“And we could send out a company-wide announcement for any employee volunteers for the project,” Michael offered. “If you accept, that is.”

Castiel wondered why Michael had chosen him to do this, when there was an entire team dedicated to such things. He didn’t think Michael would trust him with anything so soon, but it looked like he was wrong.

Maybe this would be a good thing. Maybe this would help Castiel keep his mind off Dean for a while. If he kept busy, he might just be able to trick himself into forgetting about the past.

“I accept,” he said, even though he had no idea where to start with any of it.

Michael seemed pleased by that. “Excellent. I’ll have a press release drawn up. We’ll make the announcement later in the month and begin advertising come the New Year. Naomi’s office will draw up a budget and get it to you shortly. Please, let Hannah know if you need any assistance.”

Castiel blinked, not really knowing what to do now. Was he expected to begin planning immediately? It didn’t seem necessary, as it was still winter. Besides, Claire and Jack were right outside the door waiting for him.

“Do . . . do I start now?” he asked unsurely.

Michael shot him a curious look. “If you wish. I look forward to seeing what you come up with.”

Castiel opened and closed his mouth a few times. He knew this whole thing was some kind of test, but he didn’t know what for.

He stood up, and walked out of the office without saying goodbye, feeling awkward the entire time. He could sense Michael’s eyes still on him.

Once he got back outside, Claire and Jack were sitting on the waiting chairs, kicking their legs as they sipped hot cocoa out of Evangelist mugs from the kitchenette. Hannah had apparently found a way to make them sit quietly.

“Everything okay?” she asked, looking up at him with a confused expression. He wondered what he must have looked like the warrant that response.

“Yes,” he said, not really knowing how much he was allowed to tell her. “Michael wants to me plan a spring fair at the new park.”

“Oh!” she said, sounding a little excited, but she was probably just being polite. “That’s fun. Let me know if you need any help.”

He thinned his lips, and squinted over at Jack and Claire. He suddenly felt a little silly.

“Actually, I may need your help on one thing,” he said.

“Okay. What?”

He glanced back at her. “What _exactly_ do people do at a fair?”

///

Dean grinned at himself in the bathroom mirror—a new one they had bought at a yard sale a couple weeks back after he’d shattered their first one—and a sense of giddiness swept over him. He hadn’t been this excited about going to a party, or hell, anything for that matter, in a long time. When he’d heard that the theme for the end of year frat party this time around would be the old west, he kind of felt like he’d won lotto.

He deserved this.

He adjusted the vest over his shirt before fixing the belt of his holster to slant below his hip _just_ right. His serape was laid out on the sink, and he picked it up, fit it over his head, and spread it out on his shoulders the same way Clint Eastwood did in the _Good, the Bad, and the Ugly_.

“How do I look?” he asked, casting a quick side-glance to Charlie standing in the bathroom doorway before checking himself out again in the mirror.

“Dude, you’re so into this. I love it,” she said, laughter in her tone. She was dressed like a sheriff, a cheap plastic gold badge stuck to the faux-leather brown vest she wore over brown pants and black costume store brand cowboy boots. She had a hat covering her wavy red hair, and another, way more authentic, hat held between her hands. Dean gestured for it, and she extended her arm to give it to him.

He placed it on top of his head, his grin growing even wider to wrinkle his eyes. He really did look the part.

“Yeah, but how do I _look_?” he said. “I mean, would _you_ sleep with me?”

“Sorry, you’re not my type,” she said, but then looked him up and down accessingly. “But—if I _could_ be persuaded towards men—yes, I would _totally_ sleep with you.”

He laughed, and it sounded genuine. It was, actually, as opposed to the pushed laughter he’d been giving for the past few months in hopes that one day it would be real. After tonight, he wasn’t really sure if his good mood would hold, but it was a start. It felt nice to be happy about something. It felt nice to _feel_ good.

And he was going to ride this high as far as it would take him.

“Good,” he said, turning away from his reflection and heading for the exit to the bathroom. Charlie took a few steps backwards into the hall to let him out, and he flipped the light off behind him. “Because, tonight—I’m gettin’ laid.”

He _was_ getting laid. He’d made up his mind. It had been way too long. He hadn’t slept with anybody since Cas, and he honestly still wasn’t sure he _wanted_ to. But he needed to. It didn’t matter who it was. He just needed to prove to himself that he could move on, and maybe this was the first step to that.

“Hell yeah, you are!” she exclaimed, holding her palm up for a high-five. He slapped their hands together _Top Gun_ style, and they walked into the living room. Sam, Eileen, Gilda, and their newest addition, Kevin, were in there playing flip cup on the coffee table.

Sam was dressed like an old west saloon keeper, and he looked pretty good thanks to Dean’s refusal to let his little brother phone this one in. Eileen was dressed as a dance hall girl, her costume store-bought with a few modifications. Gilda and Kevin were both dressed like cowboys.

“You finally ready?” Sam asked when they walked into the room.

“Yeah, yeah, you can quit your complaining,” Dean groaned. Sam had made a big thing about showing up to the party on time, which was totally lame because who did that? The real fun probably wouldn’t get going until after midnight, and it was only eleven.

They all got up to collect their things, and Dean pulled on his vest in one final adjustment, making sure he wasn’t forgetting anything.

Just as they were getting ready to go, the front door opened, and they all turned quickly in confusion. They hadn’t been expecting anyone else.

Dean’s throat went dry when he saw his father shouldering through the doorway, his posture sagging from exhaustion and his duffel hanging loosely on his back.

John took one look at the group before him and pushed his head back in confusion. “Boys?”

Sam was the first to react. “Dad?” He stepped forward, his arms going out as he moved so he could hug John. When the hug broke, John slapped his hand to Sam’s shoulder and kept him at elbow’s length, his eyes swooping up and down Sam’s face as if checking for injury. He always did that for both of them, as if he wanted to make sure they were still in one piece. Dean remembered once, a long time ago, John told him that, after both of them were born, he and Mary counted all their fingers and toes just to make sure they were all there.

He kind of never stopped counting them.

But there was always something in John’s eyes when he did it for Sam. Dean really didn’t know what to call it. It was a weird mixture of pride and relief, like Sam was precious. Whenever he did it for Dean, it felt almost clinical, like an army medic making sure a soldier was still fit for duty.

“Dad!” Dean said, moving forward and giving John an embrace of his own. John smelled like he always did—sweat and old cologne. It never failed to make Dean feel secure, like no matter what, everything would be okay.

And, yeah, maybe it would be. Maybe Dean didn’t need to get laid to start healing himself. Maybe he just needed his family back together again. The joy he’d felt a few minutes ago transformed into something a little less giddy, and a little warmer, as it settled between his ribs.

“What are you doing here?” he asked. As always, he was awed that his father was even standing in front of them.

John smiled a little tiredly at the pair of them, and said, “My next route isn’t ‘til after Christmas. I figured I’d come home and spend that time with my boys—but it looks like you two are still on Halloween.”

They both laughed a little, and Sam said, “No, no—thank god.” Sam never liked Halloween, which Dean thought was totally lame, but he’d let it slide because he was just so damn happy right now. “There’s this party the frats have at the end of every year. We were gonna go—.”

“Yeah, but we don’t have to. We can stay back, if you want,” Dean offered, and he had mixed emotions about it. He’d really been looking forward to tonight, and he still thought it would be good for him, but suddenly all he wanted to do was sit at home and hang out with his dad and brother.

He really didn’t know what he hoped for John’s response to be; but he was kind of relieved when he said, “You know what, it’s fine. I’ll probably conk out the second I sit down, anyway. You two go to your party. We’ll catch up tomorrow over breakfast.”

Sam nodded, wearing a smile of his own. “Okay. Yeah, sure. We’ll see you tomorrow, Dad.”

John gave him one more hug, and then placed a firm hand on Dean’s shoulder, eyeing them both softly. He readjusted his duffel bag and walked further into the room. Sam reintroduced him to Eileen, who he’d met over the summer when they stopped to see her on their road trip. Charlie already knew him, but not very well, so they said an awkward hello before they headed out.

“Have fun,” he told them. Dean was the last out the door, and John called his name when it was just the two of them. Dean poked his head back in, giving his father his undivided attention when John said, “You make sure Sammy doesn’t drink too much, you hear?”

His tone was stern as he gave the order, and Dean heard the underlying message of it. It was the same one as always: _watch out for your brother_. Dean didn’t even need telling anymore, if he ever did.

He nodded to show he’d understood.

“And if you get too drunk, you call a cab. Understand?”

“Yessir.”

“Good. Goodnight.”

“’Night, Dad.”

Dean closed the door behind him and jostled down the stairs quickly to catch up with his friends. Damn, it was good to have John home. The night hadn’t even begun and it was already turning out to be awesome. He had a weird sense of hope lodged in his chest, telling him that maybe things could get back to normal.

After they piled into the Impala, it took about fifteen minutes to get to the part of campus with all the fraternity houses. There was already a line of cars parked along the road, with a student—probably some freshman pledge—in a rodeo clown costume directing the traffic down the street to the empty curbside spaces. Dean parked the car, and the six of them trekked through the browning slush on the sidewalks towards the line to get into the house. Dean hugged himself against the cold, and eyed his brother a little enviously as Sam wrapped his arms around Eileen to keep each other warm. Charlie and Gilda were doing something similar. He realized he was scanning the cars they passed, looking for Cas' truck before he remembered that it was currently sitting in Bobby's scrap yard. He tried not to glance at all the faces of the people on line, hoping to make eye contact with a familiar pair of blue eyes.

But what were the chances of that, right? Sure, Balthazar or Meg would probably drag Cas' ass to the party, but there were like a million people there. The chances of them running into each other were pretty slim. And Dean wasn't about to go looking for him. No way.

Instead, he looked at the costumes of the people nearby, checking out a few people and contemplating striking up conversation with those around him who caught his eye. He decided to wait until they got inside to offer anyone a drink or a dance. The night was still young, and he wanted to keep his options open.

The inside of the frat house was crawling with people, packed in like cattle—many of them wearing cowhide prints on their costumes to add to the illusion, which was kind of too on the nose for Dean. He followed his group of friends as they pushed through the rooms of the house, grinning wildly at the faux longhorn bull skulls and Navajo rugs hanging like tapestries on the walls. There was a poker table, fully equipped with a dealer, in one room. He'd definitely hit that up later. Towards the back of the house, he looked out the window towards the back porch and saw people huddled around to watch a game of horseshoes. When he saw the mechanical bull, he almost lost his shit.

There was a dance floor in one of the front rooms, which must have been the frat's dining room, because a long table was pushed up against the wall to make room for the partygoers. The large kitchen was set up with a bar, a "saloon keeper" behind the island counter fixing drinks for the clamoring crowd looking to get drunk. By the time Dean got a whiskey, Charlie and Gilda were lost to the masses, and Kevin was chatting with some girl.

"I think there's more stuff downstairs," Sam leaned in to Dean's ear and yelled over the music blasting through the house.

Dean leaned back and nodded to show he understood and was ready to go. Sam tapped Eileen's shoulder and nodded his head towards the kitchen's exit, and the three of them shouldered through the crowd. Dean kept his whiskey held close to his chest so no one would knock it over.

Which ended up happening anyway.

Someone bumped—well, stumbled—into him, and some of his drink tipped out of the cup and sloshed onto the front of his shirt. "Son of a bitch—."

"Hey, watch it—Oh. Hi-ya, Dean."

Dean glanced up at the person who'd accosted him, and found Meg Masters' shit-eating grin staring back at him. Of course. Out of all the people . . .

"Get the hell out of my way, Meg," he growled. He really wished it had been anyone else. He never wanted to see her face again.

"Happy to," she said, continuing to smile, but it turned gloating. "Clarence is just getting me a drink at the bar."

Dean tensed, his eyes moving over to the bar before he could stop himself. He spotted Cas immediately, and—fuck, he looked good. He was dressed like a cowboy, with a dark brown rancher hat covering his mess of hair and a blue jean shirt that made his eyes piercing, even in the low light of the party. The crowd shifted a little, and Dean's gaze trailed down his body to his brown slacks and black cowboy boots, fully adorned with spurs. He probably got the get up over Thanksgiving break at the Novak's Wyoming ranch.

He'd lost some of his tan in the winter months, but he was a little bulkier than Dean remembered. His shirt tightened over his chest as he stood up straighter when the bartender handed him his drinks. The muscles of his back shifted and flowed like liquid under the fabric as he turned around, and his pants were hugging his lean legs. Dean thought about all the new muscles he hadn't touched, and how much he'd really like to.

He swallowed hard, and forced himself to look back at Meg. He trailed his gaze over her costume: a tight dress with black lace coming up her neck and down her arms. It was short enough to show off the garter on her thigh. It looked like an updated version of what a whore might have worn back in the day.

He gritted his teeth into a feral kind of grin. Because this party wasn’t big enough for the two of them. "Nice costume. Suits you."

"Doesn't it?" she answered, sounding pleased.

Dean needed to get out of there before Cas came back with her drink, because as much as he didn't want to see her, he _really_ didn't want to run into Cas. He glanced around the crowd, trying to find Sam and Eileen, but they were long gone. They probably hadn't even realized they'd lost him until it was too late.

He looked back at her, and rolled his eyes dramatically because he couldn't think of a good comeback. Then, he hightailed it out of there in search of the door leading downstairs. He drank his whiskey in one gulp as he went, reveling in the burn down his throat. It didn't do much for his sobriety though, and he really hoped there was alcohol in the basement. He needed it.

A fake railroad track was laid out down the hallway, and people were drunkenly hopping from one space to the other without touching the slats or teetering as they tried to balance along the sides. Dean followed it to the door at the end of the hall that opened up to a dark staircase.

A different pop song than what was playing on the main level blared up towards him, bringing with it the sweet smells of sweat and alcohol and the skunky scent of pot. Dean went down the steps, and found a gyrating sea of people dancing tightly together in the small basement. There was a punch bowl on a table at the bottom of the steps.

He filled up a cup and downed it. It tasted rancid—like someone had tried to mix whiskey with orange juice and thought it was a good idea. He didn't care. He downed it in one go and filled his cup up again, and repeated the process until he started to feel his head tingle and his thoughts get fuzzy around the edges.

He was pleasantly numb by the time he wedged himself into the sea of bodies, fully intending on finding his brother. But then some girl in a smock like a young pioneer woman on the Oregon Trail stepped in front of him and twirled around to grind her ass up on him—and all thoughts of Sam went fully out the window. He placed his hands on her hips, and promptly lost track of time.

///

It must have been hours into the evening at that point. Castiel really hadn't been paying attention to the time, and it seemed irrelevant now that he had a few drinks in him. He wasn't sloppily drunk, which was probably for the best because his last attempt at drinking—when Balthazar had tried to pull him "out of his slump" and took him to a club downtown—didn't go so well. He ended up becoming even more depressed, and it had never felt that way when he was with Dean.

But he was trying again, and he did his best to keep his spirits up at the party. To go with the flow, as it were. That's all he'd been doing for the last few months. He'd been giving up control, just letting things happen to him. It seemed pointless to fight the tide anymore.

Still, the entire night, he'd unconsciously been looking out for Dean. He knew Dean was at the party—because he had to be. Dean loved cowboys. In fact, it had been the only thing Castiel could think about while dressing earlier that evening. And perhaps the thought of that, and the knowledge that Dean would be there and that Castiel would potentially run into him, made Castiel choose a slightly snug fitting shirt. Maybe it had made him order authentic cowboy boots and a hat online a few weeks ago in anticipation of the party.

Just in case he did see Dean there.

Not that it would matter.

He wondered what costume Dean had chosen for the night. Knowing him, he was likely dressed as a character from a western film, his attire accurate down to the last minute detail. He would be the best-dressed person there; and the most handsome, but that went without saying. Castiel wanted to see him so badly.

He distracted himself by trailing Meg through the party, where they met up with some of her friends on the dance floor, all of whom seemed hell-bent on keeping him from taking a rest as they took turns pulling him in for a dance. Balthazar had arrived with them but, as was his nature, he disappeared very quickly. He'd been dressed as a Native American, which Castiel had pointed out was culturally insensitive. Balthazar argued that it was the only western costume he could think of that allowed him to not wear a shirt, or much in the way of bottoms, either—which Castiel narrowed his eyes at because that may have made it even more racist.

Eventually, Meg's friends dispersed as they moved on to dance with other people or went to find another activity to fill their time. Castiel followed Meg off the dance floor, yawning widely as they shoved through the masses seemingly without a destination in mind. He really just wanted to go home. It felt late, and he wanted to get to bed so that he wasn't falling asleep at mass and the family meeting tomorrow. However, Meg didn't seem to allow that. She slapped his cheek playfully to wake him up.

"No yawning! We're partying 'til the sun comes up," she told him, yelling over the music.

He sighed, his eyes stinging and his muscles suddenly limp. He was sticky with sweat and exhausted from dancing. Besides, the alcohol was beginning to make him sleepy. "That seems far away," he said, not bothering to shout, because it really didn't matter if she heard him. She wouldn't listen, anyway. And his throat was sore from shouting all night.

"Buck up," she ordered, giving him a stern look to show him she meant business. “I’m gonna get us some more alcohol.” She lifted the mostly empty plastic cup out of Castiel’s hand and flashed him a grin. “Don’t go anywhere, cowboy.” She turned and pushed through the crowd, the lace of her dress visible from a distance until the people in the room closed in, and then she was gone.

Castiel sighed after her. He was vaguely aware of the song changing, and a fast piano beat filled the room, eliciting cheers to rise up from the partygoers. He really didn’t want another drink. He wanted to leave. This year’s party wasn’t nearly as fun as the last one, and he could guess why that was.

Suddenly, there was a commotion from the main room of the house, and Castiel turned back to see all the dancers packing in tightly along the old wooden dining table that had been pushed against the wall. Someone was on top of the table, waving his arms wildly to play air guitar as a riff cut through the rhythm of the piano.

Castiel squinted, his heart jack hammering in his chest, but he didn’t need to actually see the blur of motion across the room. He didn’t need to double-check whose face was under that cowboy hat. He knew the bow of those blue jean-clad legs. He knew those broad shoulders, even hidden beneath the thick garment draped over them that looked suspiciously like a blanket.

“Out here in the fields!”

The music was playing loudly and the crowd was screaming the lyrics, but somehow Dean’s voice rose above it all.

Of course, it _would_ be Dean.

“I fight for my meals! I get my back into my livin’!”

Just as Castiel considered the fact that he should turn around and hightail it out of the house, he discovered he was shouldering his way through the heated mass of jostling bodies in the direction of the makeshift stage Dean had made for himself.

He was grinning broadly as the crowd ate up his antics, and Castiel assumed Sam was somewhere looking on and shaking his head, biting back a smile of his own as to not give his brother the satisfaction. Dean was swaying a little as he danced and pointed this way and that to the people below him as he exaggeratedly shouted the lyrics. He was drunk and insane and so handsome under the rim of his hat.

“It’s ooooooo-nly teenage wasteland!”

Dean jumped up, his boots coming down hard and making the table shake, and Castiel briefly panicked it might break under him.

Castiel was at the front of the crowd suddenly, directly to Dean’s left, before he realized this was a terrible idea. The hairs stood up on the back of his neck, convincing him that Michael had hired someone to follow him, to make sure Castiel didn’t attempt to fraternize with the Winchesters. It was probably a paranoid thought, but it was better to be safe than sorry.

Besides, their last couple of interactions hadn’t been ideal. They’d been heartbreaking, in fact. Their break up, when Dean had told him Castiel wouldn’t get a second chance and Castiel left anyway—because he had no choice—was bad enough. And seeing Dean with that girl at Homecoming was still difficult to process. And then after that, their last night together, and the morning. Dean smiling blissfully in his sleep as Castiel packed up his things. It was almost unbearable to think about.

Dean definitely didn’t want to see Castiel; he probably wanted nothing to do with him.

Dean was happy. He looked happy. He was moving on with his life. That was good. Castiel was glad he was happy and safe. There was no need to dredge up the past. And Dean hadn’t spotted Castiel yet, so perhaps there was still time to slip away unnoticed.

“Put out the fire and don’t look past my—.”

Dean’s eyes locked with his, and in that instant, Castiel froze with terror. Around them, the crowd continued to shout and jump exuberantly. Dean had stilled. His smile faded slowly, leaving only faint lines around his mouth to prove it was ever there at all. Castiel couldn’t look away from him.

 _Let’s get together before we get much older_.

Dean seemed to rattle his head a little bit, and then his smile was back, bright and beaming and whiter than the strobe light. He reached down with both hands, offering them to Castiel. And this was a terrible, horrible idea, but, God help him, Castiel grinned back and slipped his hands into Dean’s warm and familiar calloused palms. The touch instantly set Castiel alight, and he allowed himself to be hauled up onto the table.

The wood wobbled shakily beneath both of their weights, making Castiel’s stomach drop, but it seemed to hold. The crowd let out another loud sound, and then a few more people were climbing onto the table. Now Castiel was really worried. Someone could get hurt.

Dean must have seen his wide, searching eyes, known his fear, but he only threw his head back in a laugh and wrapped one arm around Castiel’s middle, pulling him in close. Despite the fact that Castiel was only tipsy, he suddenly felt light and reckless with the feeling of Dean’s body against his. Dean’s eyes were watery and glazed over with alcohol, bringing out just how green they were even in the lowlight of the room. Castiel wondered if Dean would have done this if he were sober, and he supposed he should have pulled away right then and there—because he was pretty sure the answer was no.

But then one of Dean’s hands folded around his and brought it up, and Dean rocked them back and forth in a sped-up version of a slow dance. The people on the table with them grinded against each other and twirled around while laughing. Castiel was certain the table would give out, but it didn’t really matter anymore. So what if he fell? At least he’d have Dean to catch him.

“Nice digs,” Dean shouted into his ear, slurring his words a little as he eyed the hat on Castiel’s head.

Dean really liked cowboys . . .

Castiel smiled softly downwards, a blush creeping up the back of his neck. “Thank you,” he said, but it got lost to the cacophony around them. He raised his eyes again and took Dean in, and he wanted to tell him how handsome he looked, even while sweaty and drunkenly flushed. He always looked so handsome.

Dean was again singing along with the music, but he wasn’t making a show out of it anymore. It was just words tunelessly muttered under his breath as he rocked them. “It’s only teenage wasteland . . .”

Eventually, the song faded out, and something slower took its place. Castiel wished it had played forever, because now the fun was over and Dean would realize what was happening. They’d have to break apart again, as the couples around them on the table and on the floor came together, holding each other as they swayed slowly.

But, as the singer crowed her sad song through the speakers, Dean didn’t let go. If anything, his arm tightened around the small of Castiel’s back, and he slowed their rhythm.

Neither of them said anything as the song played, but Castiel couldn’t stop staring at Dean. Dean looked back at him, his glassy eyes shining in the darkness, flittering over Castiel’s face as if he were in a dream. Every now and again, the barest of smiles would grace his lips, pulling ever so slightly at the corner of his mouth before flickering away again.

Castiel was awed by him. It made it a little hard to breathe.

_Well, I’ve been ‘fraid of changin’ ‘cause I built my life around you . . ._

Castiel was falling in love with Dean all over again.

More than anything, he wanted to tell Dean he was sorry. His lips burned with the longing to kiss him. But he was petrified to do those things, because he worried it would break the spell and Dean would shove him away.

Instead, he leaned in, hooked his chin on Dean’s shoulder, and closed his eyes, blocking everything else out. He could only feel Dean’s hand in his, the press of their chests, Dean’s arm holding him. Dean placed his cheek against Castiel’s head, causing his hat to tip off center, and Castiel could feel his breaths tattooing his neck. It raised bumps on his skin. He could feel Dean’s rapid pulse thumping against his chest.

Castiel turned his face into Dean’s neck, as ill-advised as it was, his nose brushing against Dean’s ear and his lips grazing his stubble. He felt Dean shiver slightly, and breathed him in.

He missed him so much. Even when he was pretending not to miss him. Even now, with Dean so close, Castiel’s arm slung up his back and his fingers clutched around his shoulder, holding him tightly. Perhaps now most of all.

As the violins played, Dean leaned away slightly so that he could turn his face into Castiel and nose at his cheek. His lips were so close, so full and parted and waiting. His eyes were downcast, the long curve of his bronze lashes catching the light.

His mouth was moving in the smallest increments, and Castiel thought he must have been singing along again.

_Ah, take this love, take it down._

It was so painful. Castiel didn’t know happiness could hurt so much. Because this was heaven.

“I love you,” Castiel whispered, but it was only in a breath, and Dean didn’t react. It was inaudible over the music. He couldn’t say these things anymore. He couldn’t want this. It wasn’t allowed. “Dean.”

 _Well, well, the landslide will bring it down_.

Abruptly, the song changed into something loud and electric and poppy. It felt like a bucket of ice water. Castiel’s breath hitched as the air was punched out of him, and it must have taken Dean by surprise, too, because he leaned away quickly.

Castiel swallowed hard, blinking and not knowing what to do. He didn’t want to let go. He didn’t want Dean to let go. He wanted to keep pretending that he could have this. So, he just stood there dumbly for a few moments, half in love and half heartbroken by his own design.

And he knew exactly what he had to do.

He cleared his throat to muster up his own courage, collecting whatever threads of sanity he had left, and stepped out of Dean’s arms. “I—I should go,” he said, his voice sounding rough and small. He could hardly hear it himself.

But Dean seemed to understand. His arms hung limply at his sides, and recognition flashed in his eyes, followed by something pleading and vulnerable as they fell to Castiel’s mouth. Then, his lips thinned, expression tensing into something quiet and brave. He nodded once. “’Kay,” he said nonchalantly, and turned away with a flippant wave. “See you around, man.”

It made Castiel want to sink into the ground and never be dug up again. He wanted to be buried alive. This was awful. It was horrible. Dean had just brushed him off like he was nothing, just a random person at a party who shared a dance with him. His eyes started to sting, and he instantly fought it back by grinding his teeth and clenching his fists at his sides. He looked away, but Dean was still in his periphery.

He supposed he’d deserved that—to be swept aside like he didn’t matter. Dean had every right to treat him that way.

Castiel turned around and hopped down off the table. He needed to find Meg. He needed to get her home and then crawl into bed and die. He fixed his hat so that it was upright on his head again and walked through the dancers, numb to them jostling against him. And then a hand wrapped around his arm, startling him so much that he nearly whirled around to clock his assailant in the nose.

Sam’s eyes went wide at the spooked look that must have been on Castiel’s face. He let go instantly, and held up both hands in surrender. “Cas,” he shouted over the music. “Dude, we gotta talk—.”

No. Castiel couldn’t talk to him. Sam looked sober enough, which meant he had approached Castiel on purpose. He’d remember this with perfect clarity tomorrow, and Dean wouldn’t like that very much when Sam told him about it.

“I’m sorry, Sam, I—,” he started, pulling himself away. He was beginning to get sick of hearing the words, _I should go_ , coming from his own mouth. All he could say instead was, “I’m sorry.” And he meant it.

Sam stared after him, eyes large and sympathetic, and Castiel couldn’t face that. He missed Sam, too.

He spotted Meg walking back into the front of the house from the kitchen, a red plastic cup clutched precariously in either hand. He stomped up to her quickly and grabbed her by the shoulder.

“Whoa, easy!” she shouted.

“We’re leaving,” he told her pointedly. In truth, he really didn’t care whether she came with him or not. He was leaving either way. If she protested, she could stay. He’d just been the one to drive her there, and he assumed he’d be her ride back home.

“No way!” she jerked her elbow out of his hold, some of her drink spilling out of the cup in that hand. “Party’s just getting started. Lighten up a lit—.”

“Fine. _I’m_ leaving.”

She blinked, taken aback at his sudden anger. It had surprised him, too, how quickly it had come on.

“What the fuck happened to _you_?”

It was a loaded question. His family happened to him. Evangelist had happened to him. His father leaving and his mother dying and his sister and brother abandoning him happened to him. Dean Winchester happened to him.

Instead of answering, he turned around quickly and marched for the exit.

He didn’t look back to see if she had followed. 

///

Really, Dean was kind of surprised he woke up in his own bed the next morning. He’d made a pact with himself to go home with somebody at the party, but then he got too drunk to follow through. He hadn’t exactly blacked out, but the latter part of the night was a little foggy and disjointed images swam in his memory.

One memory in particular.

He’d danced with Cas. He didn’t really know how he felt about that. It kind of pissed him off, to be honest. He was trying his best not to think about Cas. He was trying to remind himself that Cas was a Novak and they didn’t care about anyone but themselves—and their money, and their stupid mafia drug business. But then he saw Cas last night and he forgot he’s supposed to hate him. It’d been so easy to slip his hand into Cas’ and dance with him.

It’d been easy to bury himself in Cas and forget that the rest of the world existed, to mouth soft things in the space between them that Cas would never hear. Things like, _I need you_ , and, _Why the fuck did you leave_ , and, _If you don’t come back to me soon I’m gonna lose my friggin’ mind_ , and, _I don’t know how to say we’re over_ , and, _I’m sorry I fucked it all up like I always do_. He wished he were bold enough to say those things at a higher volume, but he’d been afraid Cas would leave again. And it had felt so nice to hold him again, and Cas had looked so good in that costume, like he was straight out of the best wet dream Dean had ever had. He’d chickened out.

And then the song ended before he built up the courage, and Cas had walked away, and Dean had pretended he didn’t care because he _shouldn’t_ care. Because Cas didn’t care.

Right?

Cas didn’t care? Then what the hell was that last night? Maybe it was just whiskey and wishful thinking, but he’d gotten some pretty strong pinning vibes off Cas. And people who didn’t care didn’t do shit like that.

Dean laid on his mattress, his blankets tangled around him as he stared up at the ceiling. It circled around him a little dizzyingly, and his stomach was queasy from alcohol. His breath was stale and his mouth cottony. But he didn’t think he needed to throw up. He did want to stay in bed all day, though. Getting up seemed like too much of an effort.

He just wished he’d had someone to stay in bed with.

But not just anyone. He could blame getting drunk all he wanted, but the truth was, after dancing with Cas, he couldn’t have gone home with someone else if he’d wanted to. His heart just wasn’t in it.

Who was he kidding? He’d never be over Cas.

There was a gentle knock on his bedroom door, which was already left a crack open, like it was every night, just in case Sam still needed him to chase away the monsters hiding under his bed or if he had a stomachache. Dean blinked back the thoughts rolling around his head and said, “Yeah?” His voice was still gruff from sleep and cracked from his hangover.

The hinges creaked as Sam opened the door just wide enough to stick his head in. His shaggy hair was in every direction from sleep, and his face was still lined from his pillow. “Hey. Didn’t know if you’d be up yet,” he said.

Dean grunted and sat up, his gut roiling a little in the movement. He rubbed the sand from his eyes with his knuckles. “Yeah, well, here I am. Conscious. Yay.”

Sam snorted and walked inside, carrying two chipped, steaming mugs. One was a gag gift Dean had gotten him one year from a gas station that read _World’s Best Grandpa_ , and the other was a plain white one Sam had stolen from the campus dining hall. He handed the latter to Dean. Dean cradled the coffee between his hands, letting it warm him as he breathed in the smell. It was already making him feel better.

There was sugar in it, just the way Dean secretly liked it. Sam had put it in so Dean wouldn’t have to ask for his coffee to be anything but black. Suddenly, it seemed kind of silly why Dean wouldn’t just ask.

“Eileen get home okay?” he asked Sam after taking a sip.

Sam nodded as he sat down on the floor next to Dean’s bed and crossed his legs under him. He placed his coffee down in front of his ankles. “Yeah, Charlie and Gilda walked her back to her dorm. She’s, uh—she’s headed back home for the break tomorrow. I think I’m gonna go over there later and help her pack.”

“Such a gentleman,” he teased, but he was happy for Sam. Eileen was a good person, and they were kind of perfect for each other. One of them should have the person they were supposed to be with. And, if only one of them could, he was happy it was Sam.

The rest of the apartment was quiet, which was weird because, by that time, he could usually hear John grunting as he flapped out the newspaper to read at the kitchen table while he drank his coffee. It was a sound Dean missed when Dad was away. “Dad still sleepin’?”

Sam nodded, and that was fine. John needed rest after being on the road for so long. He was probably stoked about being in his own bed, and Dean didn’t blame him. They’d have plenty of time to hang out between now and Christmas. Two whole weeks. If Dean didn’t think too hard about it, it kind of felt like John would never leave again.

“So,” Sam said in that way he did sometimes—when he was about to pry but wanted to seem casual about it. “I saw you and Cas last night.”

Dean swallowed hard, and sipped at his coffee again just to hide his face. “You saw that, huh?”

“It was kinda hard to miss, Dean. You were dancing were on a friggin’ table.”

Dean flushed. He was really lucky he hadn’t fallen over and broken his neck. “Yeah, if only it’d been a bar like _Coyote Ugly_ ,” he said, hoping it would change the subject.

It didn’t.

Sam did allow a little huff of laughter, but his smile waned when he looked back up at Dean again. “Couldn’t help but notice Cas left pretty quickly after that. I tried to stop him, but—.”

Dean tensed. “You what?”

Sam blinked, his forehead lining in confusion. “Cas. I tried to get him before he left. He’s been pretty MIA lately, so—.”

“Yeah, Sam, because we broke up,” Dean snipped back.

Sam shook his head. “I know, but, Dean—.”

“No!” Anger spiked in him. Now that he was a little more awake, the happiness he’d felt last night was fading away, and all the ugly feelings that came along with longing to have Cas back took its place again. Last night, it had hurt in a good way; now, it just hurt.

“Damn it, Sam, just butt out, okay?”

Sam sighed, and Dean knew he definitely wouldn’t butt out. “Look,” he said, sounding like he was about to lay down the law. What the hell did he know? “You guys really didn’t get to talk about what happened, Dean. And, until you do, you’re never gonna know why he walked out.”

“I know why he walked out,” Dean argued. “Because he’s a fucking Novak and his damn high school had an equestrian club. We live in rent-controlled housing.”

Sam shot him big puppy-dog eyes. “C’mon, Dee. You know Cas isn’t like that.”

Dean looked down at his coffee, suddenly too nauseous to drink it. He didn’t know what Cas was like anymore. He thought he had.

Sam gave another heavy breath, and he leaned forward a little. He lifted up his hand in an aborted gesture before letting it fall back to his lap. “All I’m saying is—I know how you still feel about him. And I saw you guys dancing, Dean. I think he still feels the same way.”

He wanted to believe that so badly. He thought maybe Sam was right. But why, then? Why weren’t they together? Dean just didn’t get it. “No. ‘Cause, if he did, he’d be here right now.”

He’d wanted his voice to be angrier than it had been, but it was just sad. Because he knew it wasn’t that simple. There was still John, and Cas’ family. There were still all those people who wouldn’t let them be together. There was still a world of difference between Cas’ life and Dean’s life. Cas was so much higher than Dean, he might as well have been living in the clouds.

“How do you know he doesn’t want to be?” Sam asked. He made it sound so easy. “Look, I just think you need to talk to him. Nothing’s gonna get resolved until you do.”

Dean shook his head, smiling sardonically. He couldn’t do that. He couldn’t talk to Cas. Best-case scenario: Cas said he still loved him back, and they still had to call it quits. How would that _resolve_ anything?

“Just,” Sam sighed, “think about it?”

There was nothing to think about, but Dean nodded, if only to get Sam off his case. “Fine. I’ll think about it,” he lied. “Don’t mean I’ll do anything though.”

“Whatever,” Sam said. “It’s a start.”

“Great, so’s this therapy session over now, ‘cause I gotta take a piss?”

Sam rolled his eyes and uncrossed his freakishly long legs. He picked himself up from the floor and doubled back down to pick up his mug. “Yeah, we’re done. Jerk.”

“Bitch.”

As Sam walked out, Dean turned his head to look after him as he left. He kept staring at the empty doorway a long time after Sam had disappeared from it, and chewed on his bottom lip in thought.

Sam may have had a point. Not about talking to Cas—god, no. But about Cas still having feelings for him. Maybe Cas was torturing himself just as much as Dean was. Maybe Dean should just drive over to his apartment right now and kiss him stupid. Or at least tell him how stupid he was being.

But those were probably bad ideas.

Dean put down his coffee on the floor next to his bed and laid back down again, staring straight up. He really wished Cas’ head were on his chest right about now.

///

Castiel hadn't slept much the night before. He'd been far too aware of the empty space in his bed beside him. The memory of two strong, sturdy arms around him was so present, he could almost feel them as a physical weight. Almost. But it wasn't real, and Dean wasn't with him. Castiel would be able to sleep soundly if he were.

All night, the aftermath of the music at the party clogged his eardrums and echoed in his mind, relentless. When he closed his eyes, he could feel the gentle pull of Dean swaying him—a weak muscle memory like the ocean tide after a day at the beach. His cheek still tingled where Dean had brushed up against him as if nothing had changed.

And the look in Dean's eyes. The naked adoration. And then the uncaring brush off. Castiel wasn't certain which hurt more. He supposed one of them opened a fresh wound, and the other drilled into it so it couldn't heal properly.

He remembered looking at the clock at 5:04 AM, and that was all. He must have drifted off, and he'd slept right through his alarm. When he blinked awake, the sun was white behind his curtains and the clock read 10:47 AM.

Damn it.

Damn it!

He'd slept through mass. Michael wouldn't he happy. More than that, he'd be suspicious. Castiel's stomach lurched, panicking that his brother would find out that Castiel had seen Dean last night. Michael might think Castiel had disobeyed his orders. Castiel could have just damned the Winchesters.

No. He had to fix this. He could fix this.

He could still make it to the family meeting. He'd just say his truck broke down and—damn it. He didn't have his truck anymore. He'd come up with an excuse on the way.

He didn't have enough time to shower, so he splashed his face and wiped down his arms with a wet washcloth, hoping that combined with mouthwash would be enough to rid him of the stale scent of alcohol. The last thing he needed to do was show up late and smelling like a distillery. He threw on slacks and a button down, trying to look at least somewhat presentable, and patted down his hair. He was still fighting his way into his trench coat as he rushed out the door and towards the elevators.

He made it to the office at 11:02, which meant his family would already be in Michael's office. At 11:05, Hannah greeted him with a pleasant smile and an offer for coffee, and as much as Castiel wanted to say yes, he declined and pushed through the door, his stomach flopping as she told him, "They just got started."

His entrance cut Naomi off mid-sentence, and six pairs of eyes immediately latched onto him. Castiel's gaze, of course, automatically went to Michael, whose expression soured as his hazel eyes flashed.

Castiel glanced downwards, heart pounding as every nerve ending in his body flailed and fizzled. He was even more exhausted than he was when he woke up, if that were possible. He slumped down on the couch next to Anael as quietly as he could, even though the damage was already done. The only thing he could do was pray no one would comment on it.

"Castiel. It's nice to know you're taking your new responsibilities to Evangelist to heart," Raphael said dryly from his chair across the room. So much for prayer.

Castiel sighed, and rubbed at his stinging eyes. "Apologies. I . . ." He hadn't thought of an excuse. "I overslept."

"There's work to be done, brother. You know that," Michael chided, tone stern.

Castiel couldn't stop himself. Perhaps it was the feeling of Dean's arms around him last night, but he didn't want to be there. He wanted to go back to last night, to stay forever on that table, dancing with Dean. "Isn't the seventh day supposed to be for resting?"

Michael blinked as if he were taken aback.

It was Raphael who said, "For you, apparently that's every day."

"Oh, cut him some slack," Anael defended, her sharp and sudden voice making Castiel wince slightly. "He was probably out partying like a normal person last night. Like you never stayed up drinking in college."

Castiel wanted to be sick. His eyes flashed to Michael to make sure he wasn't suspicious. "I wasn't—."

Uriel's bark of laughter interrupted his weak denial. "I seem to remember a few nights of my own. Although, I assume Remy Martin has a much smoother hangover than whatever trash my fellow students were drinking."

"You’d think that,” Zachariah laughed, his tone of voice as colorful as his brown nose. “It actually doesn't matter if you drop three grand a bottle. It's all the same the next day. I learned that the hard way back when I still had hair."

"Is this why we're meeting?" Castiel huffed.

"No. We've wasted enough time," Michael said, effectively silencing them all. He turned to Naomi. "You were saying?"

"Yes. I have a list of the vendors we can choose from for the spring fair," she said, and took out a few packets from the folder resting on her knees. He began passing them around, and Castiel furrowed his brow, confused and already annoyed.

He looked down at the packet when it came his way. The list was broken down into categories, from entertainers to restaurants and caterers to jewelers. They were all Evangelist companies, but that didn't surprise him. He glanced up at Naomi, and then to Michael. "I thought I was organizing the fair."

"You are," Naomi answered for him. "These are just a list of company approved vendors."

Castiel was already shaking his head halfway though. He hadn't given the fair much thought, and perhaps this would make his life easier, but he wasn't planning on making it a glorified white-collar event.

"I thought we could bring in local businesses to sell their goods," he said. It wasn’t the only thing he’d thought of. Balthazar had suggested he and a few other students in his theater group put on a show at the event, which Castiel was considering.

She blinked at him like she didn't comprehend. "These are local."

"No, I meant—not Evangelist properties." Dean had given him the idea, in a way. Most of the places he'd taken Castiel to when they were together weren't under the company umbrella. And Gilda made the most charming bracelets out of bronze; and there were apparently many talented students who sold crafts on the side.

"This fair—this park—is for the people of Lawrence, isn't it? Not for us. There's a restaurant in town—Lafitte's. I was thinking they might cater the fair. And there are local artisans that could set up booths to—."

"This isn't a farmers market or street fair, Castiel," Raphael snipped. "We don't want to invite amateurs."

Castiel gritted his teeth, telling himself that getting angry would only make it worse. He and Raphael didn't get along on the best of days, but it seemed as if Raphael had a particular, to use Dean's phrase, stick up his ass from the moment Castiel walked in. In fact, he'd been colder than usual since Castiel began shadowing people at Evangelist.

Or maybe Castiel was just projecting. After all, his brother was a criminal, even if he didn't yet have the ability to prove it.

"Maybe if we did a mix of both?" Anael suggested. "There's this woman I know whose side hustle is making really great matcha milk from cashews. She bakes these vegan cakes, too. I keep telling her she should open a cafe."

"That's not such a bad idea," Uriel agreed, humming in thought. He glanced over at Michael. "It may help us discover fresh opportunities for more investments."

"Or it could turn our event into a catastrophe. People expect a certain quality of us," Raphael said.

Castiel looked at him sharply. "Then, perhaps you should plan it, brother, if you think you have better ideas."

"Well, you do lack experience and work ethic, _brother_."

Castiel didn't know what came over him when he narrowed his eyes and said, "You're right. But, then again, not many of us share your passion for the company, to make house calls to our employees in the middle of the night. How very hands on of you."

"Is there something you wish to say, Castiel?"

Castiel narrowed his eyes even further until Raphael’s face came into better focus, searching for any minute change of expression. Before he could find much of anything, Michael gave a frustrated sound and said, "Everyone out. Castiel, stay. Raphael, I'll speak with you later."

No one questioned it. Everyone stood up immediately, and even Castiel was on his feet. As Raphael left, he gave Castiel another lingering, cold glare, and Castiel matched it, because he had so little to lose at this point, it was becoming hilarious.

Everyone filed out and the second the door closed, Castiel realized he would rather be anywhere else than alone with Michael. One of the last times that had happened, Michael had ruined his life. He wasn't interested in that happening again.

"If I'm not in charge of anything anymore, there's no reason for me to be here," he seethed, and stomped towards the door.

"Castiel, sit down." Michael's voice invited no argument.

Castiel didn’t slow up.

"Castiel, _sit down_ ," Michael demanded again. Castiel paused, still tense. He didn't want to be there a second longer. But then he heard Michael let out a heavy breath. His voice softened when he added, "Please."

That might have been the first time Castiel heard his brother say that word, let alone mean it. It weakened some of his resolve and, albeit reluctantly, he looked around, deciding to hear what Michael had to say.

Michael pulled his suit jacket together and buttoned it as he walked around the desk. He extended an upturned palm towards the couch, inviting him to sit. Castiel considered this may be some kind of trap, but he didn't know to what end. Warily, not taking his eyes off Michael, he slowly walked towards the couch, giving his brother a wide breadth, and perched himself on the very edge of the cushion. He left his hands on his knees, ready to pick himself up again. It was the bare minimum of obedience.

Michael stood before him, a towering monolith. "I know what you think of me, brother," he began. "You think me cold, uncaring. You believe I have made it my lot in life to ruin yours."

There were a few other things that came to Castiel's mind, but, yes, that was essentially the gist of it.

“That’s what this display today was about, wasn’t it?”

Castiel kept his face hard, his eyes dark as he glared up at Michael. Michael matched his gaze for a long time, and then he did something Castiel had never expected to happen. He looked away first.

Castiel blinked, not certain what to do, especially when Michael circled the coffee table and sat beside him.

"And perhaps I've given you sufficient reason to believe that," he admitted solemnly. In truth, he sounded weary. He leaned forward, folding his hands between his knees. His shoulders sagged. Castiel didn't understand it. "When, in fact, the opposite is true."

Castiel sat back, interested. He stayed silent, waiting for Michael to explain.

Michael took in a breath, as though collecting himself, and turned his head to meet Castiel's gaze head on. There was a vulnerability in the hazel of his eyes. "Before our father left, he tasked me with running this company, but he didn’t leave it to me alone. He wanted me to train you, Castiel, so that one day you might be able to run it with me.”

A sense of numbness stole over Castiel then, his mind blanking. He was so young when their father left. Why would he want him to take over Evangelist? Castiel wasn't even certain he wanted the job.

"Why?" he managed to eke out. A new sense of understanding dawned on him. He'd never truly appreciated the weight their father put on Michael's shoulders when he left—as head of, not only Evangelist, but of the family, and of the community they sought to make better. Michael had been so young at the time, too; or, at least, too young for what he was handed. He didn't envy Michael's position, and he dreaded that, one day, he may have to take it.

"Because, Castiel," Michael said, "he saw potential in you. He believed you had the qualities of a leader. Compassion, intelligence, tenacity—a stubborn will." He nudged Castiel's shoulder at that, the ghost of a smile twitching his lips. Castiel looked down, a bashful warmth blooming in his chest despite himself.

"These things inspire loyalty," Michael said. And then, "And because . . . he loved you best, Castiel." There was something else in his voice now—some somber acceptance. Castiel never would have expected Michael to be jealous of him.

"He did?" Castiel asked, disbelief clogging his throat.

Michael looked down again, and nodded.

Castiel let the gravity of that settle into his bones. It didn't make sense. All the ones he loved were gone: his father, his mother, Anna and Gabriel. Dean. None of them wanted anything to do with him anymore.

"Then why did he leave?"

Michael heaved his shoulders. "I don't know," he said quietly. "I don't know why any of them left." It had been the closest he'd come to speaking of their lost family members in years.

He turned to Castiel again, this time sitting up straight, a renewed vigor in his posture. Castiel found himself straightening out, too. "But we're still here, Castiel. You and I, our brothers, our sister—we're what's left, and we must not lose sight of that. We must not let ourselves become distracted, do you understand? I may have failed Lucifer, Gabriel, and Anna, but I will not fail you. And I will not fail our father. And I will do my best for the town. Will you help me with that?"

Castiel's lips parted, but he didn't say anything. He believed Michael, and he wanted to help. Because it was true; he'd been so focused on chasing after things that could never be his, so focused on what he'd lost, that he'd forgotten what he had. Perhaps being groomed to take the helm of Evangelist wasn't the life he would have chosen for himself, but it was his duty to his family.

Michael was asking him to help. He would help.

He nodded. "Yes."

The tension in Michael's shoulders eased, and he looked more content than Castiel had seen him in years. "I'm happy to hear that," he said. "Then, I would like you to begin shadowing me here at the company, to learn what it means to run it. You're a senior now, and I believe you're ready to become the person our father—that _I_ —know you can be. Do you accept?"

Beneath all the warmth and flattery, beneath the sense of responsibility, Castiel's gut twisted in something he attributed to nervousness—but it could have very well been something else. He ignored it, and nodded again.

Michael seemed satisfied. "I will have Hannah draw up a schedule to reflect your weekly availability, then. And don’t worry about Raphael. He’ll come around. I’ll speak to him."

Castiel wondered if now was the time to tell Michael about Raphael’s criminal activities, about how their brother was using their company for nefarious means. But he still didn’t have proof. Only Dean’s word, and he knew that would mean little to Michael.

He didn't know what to do next. Was he dismissed? Should they hug? Shake hands?

Before he could do anything, there was a soft knock on the door, and Hannah opened it a crack to peek her head in. “Sir, there’s a call for you. Someone named Alastair? Should I take a message?”

Michael sat up a little straighter, as if he’d been expecting the call. That must have meant he and Castiel were done for the day. “No, tell him I’ll be with him in a minute.”

She nodded, and then closed the door.

Michael stood up, then, and Castiel followed suit.

"Thank you, Michael," he said, meaning it.

Michael nodded. "Have a nice rest of your day, brother. We'll be in touch soon."

And Castiel knew he was dismissed. As he turned to leave, he found he was happy he gave Michael the chance to speak. Maybe he should have done that long ago.


	17. Chapter 17

It was the morning of Christmas Eve. Dean had woken up fifteen minutes ago and he was already in a pissy mood—not just because Bobby decided to keep the garage open on today of all days this year. But because, the first thing he saw when he woke up, as he checked social media in attempt to pull himself fully into consciousness, was an article from a local news website about a Novak press conference.

They were announcing some fair for the springtime that they "hoped to make an annual event to stimulate the talent of the community" or whatever. There was a picture of Michael on the front steps of the Novak's family mansion, which was all decked out with wreaths and lights for the annual benefit party. Cas was standing right next to him, shoulders pulled tight and arms behind his back and looking generally uncomfortable being in the limelight. And so damn handsome in a navy suit.

Dean hadn't seen him since the end of the year frat party, and he'd gone back and forth a million times in trying to decide whether Cas still had feelings for him. Depending on the day, Dean's fantasies ranged from driving over to Cas' apartment, knocking on his door, and wordlessly kissing him, to doing all of that except it ended in Cas rejecting him. But, staring at the pixels on his screen, he literally had no idea how that scenario would actually turn out.

All he knew was that he wanted to be with Cas, and that Cas didn’t even look like himself standing next to his brother.

Eventually, Dean was able to put the phone down and get dressed for work. When he stepped into the kitchen, John was sipping his coffee with the newspaper folded on his lap at the breakfast table. He barely glanced up. Sam was there, too, dressed in his uniform for his motel job, name tag and all, and munching on his cereal as he scrolled through his phone.

"Mornin'," Dean told them gruffly as he made for the pot of coffee on the counter.

"Dean," John said. It was one word, one syllable, and it was enough to tell Dean that his father was in a mood.

Dean glanced over his shoulder, first eyeing the back of John's head and the line of his shoulders. Then his eyes flickered to Sam, who met his gaze with a subtle indication that John had been like that all morning and Dean should treat the situation like he was walking on a tightrope over a shark-infested pool.

Clearing his throat, Dean turned back around and poured his coffee. It was best not to say anything. If John wanted to talk about what was bothering him, he wouldn't hold back for long. Dean's stomach still knotted though, because it was Christmas fucking Eve and he really didn't want to deal with a bruised ego, or worse—a bruised eye.

It wasn't even 9 AM yet.

"I read something pretty interesting in the paper today," John drawled, and if Dean didn't know better it would have lulled him into a false sense of security. The tightening in his stomach turned into a vice grip around his intestines as the picture of Cas in the news flashed to the forefront of his mind.

"Oh yeah?" he asked off-handedly, trying to keep his voice from sounding thick. Maybe John was talking about something else.

"Yeah, looks like the Novaks are holding some spring fair."

Shit.

Dean heard the paper rustle. He looked over his shoulder again, catching Sam's eye. They stared at each other hard, Sam's eyes going wide like he was begging Dean to drop everything and run before the bomb hit. Dean braced himself for impact.

John folded the paper back to the first page and held up the article. There it was, front and center, Michael and Cas in front of a bunch of reporters. It was the same image, just a different angle. John tapped the picture with a work-cracked, giant finger. "Isn't that your friend? What was his name? Cas?"

Dean gulped. His grip around the handle of his mug went white. The way John said Cas' name made his skin crawl.

"Castiel Novak," he said, reading off the caption under the picture. He swiveled around to look at Dean, eyes dark. "You're friends with this boy and never bothered to ask what his last name is?" He didn't really believe that. He was just testing Dean.

Dean's heart lurched, and the most important thing right now was to placate John. "We're not friends anymore."

John's face went stormy as he dropped the act. "Doesn't matter," he lectured. "What the hell were you thinking, Dean? Letting a Novak into my house."

Dean opened his mouth to talk, but he had no idea what the hell to say. His throat was clogged up. Sam answered instead, which is the worst possible thing that could have happened.

He was already using his angry voice, launching into a tirade of, "You don't even know him, Dad. He's our friend."

"I don't have to know him."

Sam gave a bitter snort of laughter. "Why? Because he's a Novak?"

"Yes, because he's a Novak."

"He's just a guy!"

"He's not just a guy."

"He's a _good_ guy!"

"Sam—," Dean tried to cut in. Sam was just making it worse. Dean had to get this under control, to tell John that it wasn't a problem anymore because Cas was gone and he was never coming back.

"You don't know what the hell you're talking about," John snipped back. "After everything that family's done—."

"What? What have they done? You won't even tell us why you hate them so much!"

Dean had to admit, Sam was right. Sure, the Novaks were scum, but that didn't explain why John hated them. It didn't explain why he thought they'd done something to Mary.

But there was a time and a place, and this wasn't it.

And maybe a part of Dean didn't want to know. He didn't need another reason why he and Cas couldn't work out.

"Okay, enough!" he shouted, making his voice rise over his father's and Sam's. They both stopped, eyes snapping to Dean.

His blood was practically lava at this point. He thought he was going to get a nosebleed. He looked at John. "It was a mistake, alright? But it don't matter because we haven't talked in months." It was technically true. Even at the western party, they hadn't actually spoken too much. "I thought he was my friend, but I was wrong."

He let that sink in, suddenly feeling cold.

"I was wrong," he repeated, quieter, just because it was about time he admitted it.

When he glanced back up, Sam was shaking his head in a mixture of disbelief, sorrow, and betrayal. "Dean," he said, voice choked empathetically. "That's not true. You know that. Whatever Dad thinks the Novaks did—Cas is different. You said so yourself."

John's brows shot up as he looked at Dean accusingly.

Dean licked his lips and shot Sam a glare telling him to shut his pie hole. "Well, turns out I was wrong about that, too," he said, even though it went against everything he thought was right. The words sounded hollow, like he was betraying Cas. He didn't really believe them, no matter how much he wanted to.

Sam let out a disgusted sound, and maybe that was the worst part about all this. He left his soggy cereal on the table, pushed back his chair, and left. A second later, Dean heard the front door slam.

He'd talk to Sam later that night, after they'd both had the day to mull over what just happened.

Dean dared to look at John. He said, "I gotta get to work. We good?"

John stared at him hard, like he was trying to decide whether he believed Dean enough to not kick his ass. Then, he sighed, body sagging. "We'll finish this conversation later," he said, and Dean honestly didn't know if it was a threat or a promise.

He put his mug of coffee in the sink, realizing he hadn't even taken a sip of it but not really caring. He walked out of the kitchen and grabbed his jacket off the coat rack by the door, forcing himself to keep calm and stoic and straight-spined the whole time. He could feel John's eyes burning into him.

Once he was in the stairwell, he let himself collapse against the wall next to the door. He ran a shaky hand down his mouth, trying to collect himself.

So much for a family Christmas.

///

Over the previous weeks, as Castiel continued working with Michael, he thought he could get used to having a more active role in the company. And he enjoyed the turn his relationship with his brother took. Michael was exceedingly patient when explaining things to him, and seemed to like teaching. Castiel still might not have been particularly passionate about the topic, but, at the very least, he understood it more than he ever had in his schoolwork. Whenever he opened his textbook to study, he no longer found the material so daunting now that he had practical experience to relate to it.

Sometimes, he would stay after hours with Michael, late into the night, helping him with paperwork. Michael would answer his questions, and seemed to value his presence. They spoke of their father, their siblings, their mother. He learned that their mother had an affinity for classic black and white movies, full of starlets and Hollywood royalty; and Castiel tried not to think of Dean.

They would go to dinner together, sometimes alone and sometimes with Raphael and Uriel. Michael would take him to meetings with investors and to visit the companies under Evangelist's umbrella. There was always a touch of pride in his voice when he introduced his little brother, Castiel, whom he was showing the ropes. Castiel got to meet the employees of each company, to hear about their work. He enjoyed that aspect of the job the most.

All of this was entirely unexpected. Castiel had never thought he and Michael would spend so much time together, or any time at all. When he was young, he thought their age gap had been the reason for the distance between them; as he grew up, he came to learn that distance was just how his family operated.

But this was different. This was starting to become what his relationship with Gabriel and Anna used to be when he was young. For the first time in a long time, Castiel thought he could have a family.

Though, try as he might, he still felt like he didn’t belong. He wanted to. He hoped, in time, he would come to enjoy the work at Evangelist. And that he would settle in as Michael’s right hand. He hoped, eventually, the pull in his chest tugging him towards wherever Dean Winchester was would be severed cleanly. That he would forget there was ever a time that he ever belonged with Dean.

He told himself that he belonged here instead—or, perhaps not right where he was currently standing. He certainly didn’t wish to live his life in the Masters’ entrance foyer, standing in a pressed tuxedo and engine idling outside to keep the car warm, as he waited for Meg to complete the finishing touches on her ensemble before they drove to the benefit party.

And, most importantly, he did his best not to think about the fact that, exactly one year ago, he was annoyed at Dean for taking so long doing the exact same thing. What a travesty that night had been from start to finish. Castiel would have given anything to relive it exactly the same way, if only it meant being with Dean.

He pulled out his phone to check the time, his eyes briefly lingering on the generic background picture of a starry sky and wishing it was the photo of Dean in the Redwoods. There was plenty of time to spare before he had to be anywhere. There was a text from Michael, reminding him that he wished for Castiel to stand next to him while he gave his speech this year. Every time Castiel thought about it, his stomach flipped a little with stage fright, but at least he wouldn’t have to give a statement of his own. Perhaps that could be avoided for a few more Christmases.

There were footsteps coming from the back of the house, headed his way. Meg was still upstairs, but he knew Azazel was in his home office. He’d opened the door for Castiel and said a brief hello before excusing himself again, but Castiel didn’t know anyone else had been present. He was surprised, then, to find Crowley walking towards him down the hall.

“Castiel Novak,” Crowley stated as he got closer, his eyes flickering up and down Castiel’s suit. “A pleasure as always.” He didn’t sound like he meant it.

Castiel tried not to roll his eyes. “Crowley.”

As he came to a stop nearby, Crowley said, “All decked out for the holiday soiree, are we?”

“Yes.” His glanced up at the stairs, praying Meg was ready so he could avoid this conversation. However, the stairwell remained empty, and Azazel remained in his office. And then a thought occurred to Castiel. Perhaps this was a good thing. If he couldn’t ascertain any information about Raphael’s misdeeds from his brother or Azazel, Crowley was the next best thing. It still wouldn’t be tangible proof, but it would be enough. He could bring it to Michael without having to mention Dean at all.

“Are you going?” he asked, trying to sound casual.

“Ah, ‘friad not,” Crowley answered without missing a beat, as if his name were anywhere remotely on the party’s guest list. “I have other business to attend to tonight. I had to decline my invitation.”

Castiel nodded. “Well, Raphael appreciates your dedication.”

Crowley lifted his chin, seeming interested without betraying his cool demeanor too greatly. “Does he now?”

“Of course.” Castiel made a show of looking down the hallway again, checking that no one was there, before lowering his voice. “But not enough, if you ask me.”

“That so?”

“Azazel—,” Castiel glanced over at the hall again for dramatic effect. “Is a middleman, isn’t he? Between you and my brother? You recruit the dealers. You manage the transactions.” Castiel really hoped he was right about that. From what Dean had mentioned about Crowley, that seemed to be his function. “What does Azazel do, exactly?”

 _Really_? Castiel only had a general sense.

Crowley seemed to consider this momentarily, his eyes narrowing at Castiel. “Hmm,” he hummed after a moment. He held up his finger. “Now, Castiel. May I call you Castiel? It seems to me . . . this isn’t about Azazel at all, is it? It’s about Raphael.”

Castiel stomach flipped. Damn it. Crowley was smarter than he thought.

He leaned back, wondering how the hell he could get this back on track.

And then Crowley said, “Talk about a middleman.”

All at once, time froze. Or maybe that was just Castiel’s heart skipping a beat. He didn’t know if the moment of shock registered on his face, but it didn’t seem to matter. Crowley was still speaking.

“We all know he’s nothing more than a mouthpiece. I can’t help but think this whole process would be more streamlined if Michael were hands on,” he was saying. “Like your father was. And I seem to recall this particular model of trickle down economics flowed better when Lucifer was in charge.”

 _Michael_. _Your father_.

Really, Lucifer didn’t surprise Castiel, but he hadn’t been arrested for drugs. He’d been arrested for embezzlement, for stealing company money. But Castiel never thought the money might not have belonged to the company in the first place. He never assumed it was laundered.

No. No, that wasn’t right. It couldn’t be.

 _Michael. Your father_.

Castiel thought he was going to be sick.

“But you,” Crowley went on, reeling Castiel back in. His eyes were moving up and down Castiel again, like he was assessing him. “In due time, you and Michael will operate as a single entity, correct?”

Castiel tried not to swallow hard, tried not to let on that a sinkhole had just opened up in his gut.

All this time. Evangelist was supposed to help the community. But it was a lie.

Michael already knew what Raphael was doing.

He nodded.

“Well, I think you may very quickly find yourself in the position to cut out all these rubbish middlemen, wouldn’t you say?” Crowley told him. “Fresh blood, and all that. Fresh, _genuine_ Novak blood, and handpicked to lead by the patriarch himself, if my sources aren’t mistaken. You have what they call sex appeal. You could make us all very rich, Castiel. Well, rich _er_. I may be able to help with that.” He reached into his pocket, pulling out a business card. He held it loftily for Castiel to take. “I believe you and I should be friends.”

Castiel felt as if every bone in his body were about to snap with how tightly his muscles were constricting themselves. His mind was screaming denials at him, telling him that Crowley was a grunt. He didn’t know what he was talking about. It was a lie. Raphael was working alone.

But, deep down, he knew that was wrong. He knew he had to keep digging. He had to get more information from someone who would willingly provide it, someone who knew what was really going on.

He had to speak with Lucifer.

Collecting himself, he plucked Crowley’s card from his waiting hand and put it into his pocket. He forced a tight smile. “I’ll be in touch,” he said, and his voice sounded too rough to his own ears.

Dean had been right.

Dean had been _right_.

“Crowley, what the hell do you want?” Meg’s voice sounded from the stairwell, and Castiel started as he looked up at her. He hadn’t even heard her approach. Even now, he couldn’t focus on her.

Crowley seemed less thrown. “I was just leaving,” he said, and then shot another look at Castiel before opening the door to the winter chill, and closing it behind him. Castiel still felt cold down to his bones.

“Sorry about the wait,” Meg said when she reached the bottom of the steps. “Hopefully worth it though. I feel like I’m in friggin’ _Pretty Woman_. How do I look?” 

Castiel glanced at her, but really couldn’t pay much attention. His mind was still reeling. “Fine,” he said, and assumed it was true. He barely registered her expression dropping.

He turned to the door, and wished he didn’t have to go to the party. He didn’t know if he could stomach it.

“Let’s go.”

///

When Dean got home that evening, John was sitting in his armchair, the TV playing the news before him. He looked over at Dean, and apparently the hours in between their last conversation had done nothing for his mood other than to let it simmer.

Dean’s heart hadn’t rested all day. From the moment he got to Bobby’s, there was bile sitting right at the bottom of his throat, causing an annoying pressure that made him want to throw up. The day hadn’t exactly been busy, but Dean’s nerves were so frayed at this point, he thought he’d crash the second he hit his pillow.

“Hey,” he said, and got no response. “Sam home?”

Nothing. John had already turned back to the TV, and Dean didn’t know why he persisted. Maybe he wanted John to yell at him. It was better than the silence. Dean hated when his dad gave him the cold shoulder. He was the master at making Dean feel like shit, and it was in those moments that Dean would do just about anything to get on John’s good side again.

"You eat dinner yet?" Dean asked, figuring it was best to be helpful.

John didn't glance at him. He didn't even bother to grunt yes or no. Dean pinched the bridge of his nose, deciding whether or not it was better to get this out of the way now and deal with a black eye just so John could get it out of his system or to go to his room and sleep. He figured Christmas dinner tomorrow would be a lot less tense if he just got it over with now, and they deserved a good family holiday meal together. For once. It may be the last Christmas they get together before Sam moves out to California in a few years, after all.

"Dad, if you're gonna be pissed at me, can you just—." He sighed. "Be pissed at me."

John turned to him, finally. Dean called that progress. "I'm not angry, Dean. I'm disappointed in you," he said, tone clipped. Dean thought he'd be able to handle John's disappointment by now, but it still pooled cold on the bottom of his spine.

"Yeah, okay," he said, accepting it. "But I meant what I said. We haven't talked in months. Me and Cas—."

"You what?" John challenged. He was ignoring the TV completely by now. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and somehow managed to make the position look threatening instead of relaxed. Then, he must have changed his mind, because he hauled himself up from the chair. He walked slowly towards Dean, stride stiff and imposing, and Dean felt like he was shrinking even though they were pretty much the same height.

"You wanna tell me why you'd even think it was a good idea to be friends with a Novak? After they ruined this town. After what—." He stopped himself short, the anger in his eyes softening a bit into despair. He shook his head and looked away.

Dean blinked at him, curiosity peaked, like it was every time John mentioned the Novaks, every time Dean flipped through his journal and trailed his fingers along the names written down there. He wanted to know, and he desperately didn't want to know at the same time.

He swallowed, steeling himself. "After what, Dad?" he forced himself to ask, hoping it wouldn't set John off again. He had to know, and he thought John was just emotional enough right now to actually answer. And he might not like the answer, but what the hell could he possibly lose at this point? Cas was already gone.

John shook his head again and whirled around. He paced halfway back to his chair and then paused, putting his hands firmly on his hips and hanging his head. Dean watched him carefully.

"Dad?" he asked, taking a tentative step forward. "What’d they do? It's gotta do with Mom, right?" It had to. John never got that way if it wasn't about Mary.

John lifted his head, looking up at the ceiling. If Dean didn't know any better, he'd think his dad was praying. It took a while, but then John said, "Yeah."

Dean didn't know where to go from there. It wasn't any new information, but he still felt frozen to the spot. "What'd they do, Dad?"

Another long pause went by. Then John said, "I think they're the reason she's dead." He turned around, and said more bluntly, "They killed her."

The part of Dean that still took everything John said as scripture believed him immediately. But there was another part of him now—the part of him that was still with Cas. That was always with Cas. That couldn't believe Cas could come from something so bad. It told him to deny it.

"No, Mom died in a fire," he said, confused. "It was an accident." The images replayed in his mind. Standing on the front lawn. Sam, a bundle of babbling blankets in his arms. Staring up at the flames that licked and flickered through the upstairs window.

"I'm not so sure," John said.

Dean really wouldn't put anything past the Novaks at this point, but a mafia drug empire was different than murder in the first, especially for a blue-collar family like the Winchesters. "Why would the Novaks wanna kill Mom?"

"She was looking into them," John said, sounding tired. "She retired from her job at the paper when you were born, but she never really stopped. She’d been on them for years, since right about the same time we met. She thought they were up to something. And then when that whole embezzlement scandal happened—."

Dean shook his head. It didn't match up. "That was like, fifteen years after she died."

He was met with a derisive laugh. "This goes way back. I just don't know what it is. But there were other fires, other families. They all had ties to the Novaks, and all of them died the same way as Mary."

Dean thought about the names in the journal. His head was suddenly aching. The information slowly moved down his throat, lodging thickly there. He couldn't swallow it. "But you don't have any proof—," he tried.

"Why are you defending them?" John asked, tone suddenly short again. His eyes flashed with fire.

Dean jerked his head back like he'd been slapped. "I'm not." He really wasn't. He was just trying to process it.

"It's because of the boy, right?" John said, not letting up. "Castiel?"

Dean was quickly learning that Cas' name in John's mouth caused a visceral reaction in him. He was convinced John would find out what Cas really was to him, simply by saying his name. "No!" he said, deflecting. "What? This's got nothing to do with him."

"He's one of them, so yes it does," John maintained, and Dean wanted to argue. There was no way Cas knew about this crap, if it was true. That wasn't him. He was good.

He was different.

"You don't know him," Dean said before he could even stop himself.

Shit. How could he rewind? How could he swallow those words back down his throat?

He couldn’t. They lingered in the space between them.

"What does that mean?"

Damn it. Dean was digging himself a hole so deep, he'd probably reach China any second now. He tried to get back on topic, to steer it far away from Cas. "Look, I'm not defending them. I hate those dicks as much as you do. Maybe more."

"Why?"

Dean shook his head, not understanding. "Why what?"

"Why more? What did he do to you?" John's eyes were narrowed, shifting around Dean's face like he was searching for an answer. Dean bit down on his jaw. He had to be careful about the words he picked. Nothing ever got past his dad.

"He didn't do anything."

"You said you weren't friends anymore, so he must have done something."

"It wasn't his fault," Dean said, his heart suddenly slamming. He could feel his pulse in his throat.

"Then what happened?"

"Nothing! He just—he picked them." Dean regretted it the second he said it. But he was distracted and tripped up and the only thing he could think was, _this is it. He's gonna figure it out._

He was pretty much praying the stress would kill him before John figured out his son was queer.

"Picked them?" John demanded. "Over who?"

Dean didn't answer, but he didn't have to.

"Over you?" John surmised, skepticism mixing with anger. "Why the hell would you think a Novak would pick you over—?"

And, fuck, that was the problem. Cas would never pick Dean. No one would ever pick Dean.

John's words knocked the air out of him, and a deep breath was punched out of Dean. "Because he was supposed to!"

Because Cas had said he loved Dean. Because Dean loved him back. Because he spent every second thinking about Cas and he didn't know if he'd ever stop and Cas was supposed to be there with him. Cas wasn't supposed to walk out the door and leave Dean feeling this low.

Cas was supposed to want him.

"Why? Because you were friends?" John scoffed. He didn't understand. He should have understood. Losing Cas was like losing Mary, only Dean had to deal with the fact that Cas was still out there. Dean had to deal with hope and possibility stringing him along, and it sucked. It was worse.

"Because you think he's different than his family? Because you let him into your life?"

"Because we were together!" Dean yelled, because John had to understand. Was he really so thickheaded? Did he really have no idea?

It was because Dean and Cas were supposed to be together.

John shook his head, clearly not getting it. "You were what?"

Dean sucked in a breath as it occurred to him that he had an out. He didn't have to go through with this. He could get right up to the precipice without jumping off. He could still back out. He could lie. He was good at that.

But he didn't want to. He was too tired. Too fed up.

All he did was bury things. His sadness, his desperation, his loneliness, his fear. He didn't even know where to start digging them up anymore. He thought he'd know where to find them if he ever needed them, but he'd buried them so long ago that an X no longer marked the spot and he'd lost the map, anyway.

But Cas had known where to look. Somehow. And hiding them all away again—hiding himself—that'd really be giving up on any chance he and Cas might have.

And Dean couldn't . . .

He let out a somber breath and admitted, "I'm bi."

He thought he'd be more scared. Really, it just felt like someone had taken a boulder off his chest and he could breathe.

John’s eyes were carefully watching him. In a level voice, after what felt like forever, he asked, “What? What is that?”

Again, he could make up whatever he wanted to. John would never know the difference. But what was the point of that?

“It means I like guys.”

John jerked his head back. “Isn’t that what gay is?”

Dean wanted to laugh. Was his dad really getting hung up on semantics? “No, it—well, yeah, but—.” He ran his hand down his face. How had this conversation gotten away from him so quickly? His palm still loose over his mouth, he said, muffled, “It means I like girls and guys.”

John just blinked at him. Dean liked to think he’d gotten pretty good at reading his dad over the years. He liked to think he knew John better than anyone. It was due to all those years on the road, shoved into the shotgun seat of the Impala, moving from place to place and having zero lasting relationships except what was between them and Sam. But, right now, he couldn’t read the expression John was giving him, and he didn’t know what to think.

“Well?” Dean prompted after a while, because the waiting was worse than the beating he was no doubt about to get.

John shook his head, appearing to come back to life. “Well, what? What do you want me to say, Dean?” His tone was clipped, and something behind Dean’s ribs cracked—because that was it. The disappointment. The rejection. The fear.

He didn’t know how he’d be able to look at himself in the mirror after this.

“Anything!” Dean said. “Yell! Chew me out! Tell me to leave. Tell me you never wanna see me again.” His throat was constricting around the words, begging him to shut up. Why put ideas in John’s head? But why not? It was bound to happen sooner or later. Maybe, this way, he could do it on his own terms. Maybe he’d still be allowed to have Sam in his life.

Because he could lose everything. His dad’s respect, his home, even Cas. Everything. But he couldn’t lose Sam. That was his line in the sand.

“Is that what you’re expecting?” John asked, and he looked confused, and a little mournful. Dean didn’t know what to make of it.

He flapped his arm out in an aborted motion, not really sure what he’d meant to do with it. “Well. Yeah.”

John looked to the side, eyes stormy. He said, “Sit down, Dean.”

And he knew he was in for it now.

Dean stayed still, nervous and wary and practically shitting his pants because he had no idea what was going to happen next.

John’s voice turned hard as stone and he leveled Dean with a look. “Dean. I said, sit.”

Dean steeled himself, and moved to sit on the far edge of the couch, putting as much space between himself and his dad that he possibly could while still following the order.

John sat down heavily on his armchair, the spring creaking underneath his weight. He was quiet for another stretch of time, and Dean watched him out of the corners of his eyes. And then, John sighed. Loudly. He leaned forward, planting his feet on the floor and putting his elbows on his knees again. He scrubbed hard at his face. When he was done, he dropped his hands and folded them together in between his legs. He fiddled idly with his wedding band.

A small, slow to start smile came onto his face, like he was remembering something. His eyes were far away.

Dean’s heart was slamming.

“I ever tell you about Deacon?” John asked.

Dean’s expression crumpled into confusion. He stayed still and quiet, and shook his head.

“He was in my company back in Afghanistan,” John explained. “Damn good Marine, best if I ever seen ‘em. Saved my ass once or twice. Hell, saved all our asses. I probably wouldn’t be alive if not for him. Would have never met your mom, never had you and Sammy.”

Not knowing how to respond, or where the hell this was going, Dean just listened. He waited for the memory to turn, for John to get to some point that related to how disgusted he was by his son.

“See, Deacon was always talking about his sweetheart back home. All the guys who had them did, but Deacon—well, he just wouldn’t shut up.” His smile faded some. “We find out, Deacon’s sweetheart was named Jim.”

Dean blinked, thrown.

John kept on without missing a beat. He twirled his hands, one over the other, and stared down at them. “This was still during Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell. And some of the guys didn’t understand it. I didn’t, either. I’m still not sure I do completely. But Deacon was a tough son of a bitch. He kept on fighting, just like the rest of us.” His smile was completely gone now, eyes haunted. “And, in the end, he bled the same color as the rest of us, too.”

He fell quiet again, introspective. Dean wasn’t really sure what to say. He didn’t know how to interpret the story. Hope prickled in his chest, telling him that, maybe, John was okay with it. But that couldn’t be right.

When he spoke, his voice was croaky and unsure. “What are you sayin’, Dad?”

At last, John picked his head up and looked Dean squarely in the eyes. “No one’s just one thing, son,” he said. “Not Deacon. Not you. And, if you thought I was . . . that’s on me.”

Dean’s lips parted distractedly, amazed at what he was hearing. He wanted to pinch himself. He wanted to run to the sink and splash cold water on his face. He wanted to do anything that would prove to him this wasn’t some crazy dream or psychotic break.

He was such an idiot. No, screw that—he was such an _asshole_. He’d spent so long tiptoeing around his father, and the whole time there was no need to. He hadn’t given John enough credit.

All this time, Dean was so sure he could never be wholly himself around his dad. He thought he could never do what he wanted, _be_ who he wanted, be _with_ who he wanted. And he’d been so wrong. Every reason he had for him and Cas not working out, every reservation and fear, everything he convinced himself—it was all for nothing. As the thought of that settled into his bones, he felt himself breathe in relief.

Dean wasn’t one for believing in signs or divine intervention, but he couldn’t help but think this was one of them. It was a sign that he and Cas should be together, to try to work it out. Because the only obstacles they had were the roadblocks they threw up on their own. They could tear them all down, one by one.

It felt like a miracle.

He shook his head some, immensely grateful and totally shocked and completely remorseful. He hadn’t even given John a chance. “Dad, I’m sorry—.”

“No, don’t be,” John interrupted. That sorrowful half-smile of his formed on his face again. Somehow, John always looked sadder when he smiled. “I’m your father, Dean.” He showed his teeth, grin spreading and eyes twinkling, and Dean felt something in his chest loosen that had been a part of him for so long he hadn’t even known it was there. “Besides, I probably should have guessed when I saw that Novak boy coming out of your bedroom.”

Dean laughed. He didn’t mean to. It ruptured out of him, wet and broken. He got a hold of himself, dragged his hands down his mouth and nodded in an attempt to stop the pressure burning behind his eyes. “Yeah, maybe.”

John cleared his throat, a little more serious now. He said, “Now, don’t get me wrong—I’m gonna need some time to get used to the idea. I don’t _love_ the thought of you not settling down with a wife and a couple of kids running around.”

Dean nodded and looked down, trying not to let that pluck at his heartstrings. John might have not understood, but he was cool with it. He was cool with Dean. That was more than Dean could ever ask for, and a hell of a lot more than he’d anticipated. And besides, “Well, you might still get that wish.”

“Maybe,” John agreed, his fingers twirling his wedding ring again. He seemed thoughtful. “But, uh . . . I _really_ don’t love the idea of you settling down with a Novak.”

“Yeah, I know,” Dean said sadly, because he wanted to be with Cas. He wanted to be with Cas so bad it hurt. But he didn’t know how to fix it. He and Cas were supposed to be together but they weren’t and that was all his fault. He needed help. He needed his dad’s help.

Voice small, he said, “Hey, Dad?”

“Yeah, son?”

Dean licked his lips, weighing his words. He was scared John wouldn’t like them, but he had to shake that. He was even more scared of not having Cas in his life.

“Cas isn't just one thing, either,” he said, turning his eyes to meet his father’s. John stayed quiet, listening. It prompted Dean to keep going. “He’s not just a Novak. He’s . . . I dunno. Different. Like Sam said. He’s not like the other ones. He _cares_. Probably more than anybody. And I—.” _I’m in love with him. No matter how hard I try, I can’t stop being in love with him. I don’t know how to not be in love with him._

And it didn’t matter.

He felt his eyes stinging, some of the tears he’d been trying to hold back welling there. He wondered if his eyes were red. He tried not to sniffle. “I screwed it up.”

John sat back, contemplative as his son sat before him in pain. He asked, “Can you un-screw it up?”

Dean shook his head, rattling a tear out of his eye. It slid down his cheek and he quickly dropped his head to hide it. But it fell down to break onto his boot and he knew John must have seen it. “I dunno.”

“Well,” John said. “Way I see it, you can either sit here not knowing, or you can get off your ass and find out.”

Dean let the words wash over him. John was right. Dean couldn’t just roll over and accept what happened. He had to fight. Cas was worth that.

He didn’t look up, but he heard John shift to his feet, the old chair creaking as he got out of it. He came over and slapped a hand to Dean’s shoulder, firmly shaking it once before heading to the kitchen.

Dean decided he would keep fighting.

///

In truth, Castiel couldn’t recall a single thing from the last few hours. There were flashes, a word here and there, the memory of a forced smile spreading on his cheeks. But he felt as if he were floating. Everything, light and sound and touch, were coming from somewhere underwater.

Every time he caught sight of Raphael in the crowd of black suits and gowns, his blood seethed and bubbled. Every time he saw Michael, he wanted to grab him by the lapels and throw him halfway across the room, to scream and thrash and announce to the world right then and there that he was a liar. All of this—the benefit, the charity, the company—was all a farce. It was polluted and perverse and Castiel wanted no part of it.

He wanted everyone to know that Michael wasn’t their savior. He was their destruction. He was their enemy.

Castiel thought maybe they’d listen. That they could help him tear it all down and then rebuild. He was still a Novak, and he could set this right. He could try his best to lead them, where Michael failed. Where his father failed.

He wanted to think they’d follow him.

But then he saw the way each and every person at the benefit laughed with Michael, vied for his time, grazed their hands on his arm as if one touch might heal them. They would never believe Castiel. And, even if they did, would they care? Or would they continue on with their champagne and pearls, throwing money at any problem or charity organization so they could sleep at night? Would they rather be blissfully unaware?

Maybe Castiel was alone. Really alone. But that was okay. That was better. Because, if he couldn’t expose Michael right now, he would find a way. Until then, he had to play the part. Nothing could go wrong.

Not until he had a plan. He just had no idea what that plan could be.

All he knew presently was this: Michael had found him amongst the crowd, and he was currently charming Meg with some chat about his college days. His date was hanging off his arm, smiling at him with twinkling eyes, like he hung the moon. And Castiel was clenching his fist, too enraged to hear anything that was being said, trying too hard to keep himself under control. Too busy attempting to convince himself that anything in his life was real.

Then there was a commotion from the entranceway, and Michael and his date glanced up quickly to see what was going on. Next to him, Castiel heard Meg mutter beneath her breath, “This should be fun.”

Castiel furrowed his brows at her, not quite understanding until he followed their gazes to the foyer, where Dean Winchester, clad in his ripped dark jeans and his favorite flannel shirt whose left sleeve was stained with engine oil, was shoving his way past the men and women in black ties and diamonds. His eyes were searching wildly, and a rock instantly formed in Castiel’s gut—because Dean couldn’t be here. Dean was supposed to stay away. _Nothing_ could go wrong.

At the same time, his heart stuttered and grew wings—because Dean was there. He was there. And suddenly, everything was loud and in vivid color.

“Dean?” he heard himself say over the chatter and music coming from the parlor and the offended and snide remarks at Dean’s very existence coming from the foyer.

Castiel was walking towards him before he’d even made a conscious decision to do so. It was in his nature, like a river flows south. He moved towards Dean. Michael tried to stop him by grabbing his arm, but Castiel barely felt the touch. He brushed his brother away, and hardly registered himself placing his half-finished flute of champagne onto a passing waiter’s tray.

“Dean?” Castiel called, louder this time now that the shock had subsided. He sounded a little snippier than he’d intended, possibly because, in truth, Dean was risking everything by being there.

Dean’s eyes snapped to meet his across the room, and his lips parted in a sharp intake of air that almost looked like relief. He rushed further into the house to meet Castiel halfway. “Cas, I gotta tell you someth—.”

Castiel grabbed him tightly by the elbow and dragged him away from the party, towards one of the side rooms. He looked around anxiously, hoping they hadn’t drawn any more attention and those who Dean had run into had gotten back to their previous conversations.

“What are you—?” Dean tried.

“Shut up,” Castiel growled in a whisper, hardly looking back at him. “You can’t be here.” He didn’t want to treat Dean this way. He didn’t want to focus on his anger instead of his joy—because, really, he was overjoyed at Dean being anywhere near him, let alone seeking him out.

“No, I know that, but, man, you gotta listen. I gotta tell you something. It changes everything,” Dean was saying, speaking quickly as if he wanted to get his words out before Castiel could shut him down.

The parlor his father used to use as a writing room, where Dean had joked about the Novak family portrait just a year ago, was empty, so Castiel dragged him inside—and then he really wasn’t sure what came over him. But Dean wasn’t speaking anymore, because Castiel had hauled him against the wall and kissed him so desperately that it made a sob rack up Castiel’s chest.

He prided himself on keeping his emotions in check, but he couldn’t recall the last time he’d felt so many in such a short amount of time. And all he wanted to do was kiss Dean; because Dean was _real_.

Once he realized what they were doing, he forced himself to pull back, and for a second all he could do was look at Dean’s bruised, slick lips and blown out pupils. He was so beautiful, especially when his mouth cocked into a slow, one-sided smirk.

He was about to say something no doubt flirtatious, but Castiel cut him off before he got the chance. “You can’t be here,” he said again, but his fists tightened around Dean’s shirt.

“You don’t sound too convinced yourself,” Dean said, indicating Castiel’s hands with a downward flash of his eyes. They stared at each other for what felt like minutes, and Castiel could hear himself swallowing convulsively as he frantically thought of a way to get Dean out of there without causing any more damage. Dean’s smirk faded, and he licked his lips as his gaze wandered down to Castiel’s mouth. “Cas,” he said softly, and the single syllable contained a lifetime of reasons as to why Castiel should grip him tighter.

But Castiel looked down and shook his head. “Dean,” he tried, begged, and reluctantly unclasped his hands and slid away.

“Why are you here?” he asked after taking a moment to control himself, knowing Dean wouldn’t leave until he said what he needed to.

“My dad,” Dean explained. “He knows, Cas. He knows you’re a Novak—and that I’m bi.”

Out of all the things Dean could have said, Castiel had never expected that. Something heavy was making his chest cave in under its weight as he imagined what Dean must have gone through, and that Castiel hadn’t been there to protect him, or to at least hold his hand through it. His eyes scanned Dean’s features anew to check for any bruises and bumps. He was fine. In fact, his eyes were sparkling somewhat.

“Dean, I’m—,” Castiel stuttered, not really knowing what to say. “I don’t understand.”

“He was cool with it,” Dean said, his smile back as he pushed off the wall, shoulders first.

Castiel blinked, now truly thrown. “He what?”

Dean nodded excitedly. And then, “Well, I mean—less cool about you being a Novak. But I explained everything. And he’s fine with it, I think.”

Despite himself, something akin to hope flickered in Castiel’s chest like a match that wasn’t quite catching. He was happy for Dean, but he didn’t see how this news changed much of anything.

“So?” he asked, still at a loss.

“So?” Dean echoed, laughing a little. “You idiot. So, it means he’s not an issue anymore!” He gestured out his arms wide. And that was all well and good for Dean, but Castiel still had a major obstacle in his path. “Only thing left now is your family, and you don’t even like them, anyway, so who cares?”

Castiel rattled his head, trying his best to make heads or tails of this. He could go with Dean. He could run away—abandon his family, forget all of this. It wouldn’t be his problem. Damn the town. Damn everyone who wasn’t a Winchester.

But he couldn’t. He still had a responsibility to Lawrence—not to the Lawrence represented in the next room, but to everyone like Dean. This was his family, and he had to atone for their mistakes. And he couldn’t let Dean get in the way of that. He had to stay.

“Cas,” Dean said, effectively making every thought in Castiel’s head about duty and honor disappear. He ducked his head, fishing for Castiel’s eyes. “Come with me. Right now. Let’s fuckin’ go.”

Castiel panicked. He wanted to, he did—he wanted to go everywhere with Dean, anywhere. Unconditionally. He’d walk through the fires of hell for that boy. But this was so sudden. Not five minutes ago, Castiel was pretending like he was a proper Novak, and he’d gotten rather good at pretending, too. But then Dean stepped back into his life and caused all of that to crumble away like stones thrown at glass houses.

“I can’t, Dean, I—.”

“What?” Dean asked, some frustration slipping into his tone. “What’s the issue? Your apartment? School? You can come live with me and Sammy. And—we’ll figure out the rest of it, I don’t know. I can get a third job or something. We can take out loans. I mean, you got one semester left. How much could it possibly be?”

Castiel stared at him, relishing in Dean being so close to him again. He searched Dean’s face, counting his freckles and committing the number to memory, wondering if another had appeared or if he’d just simply miscounted last time. And, as he stared, sorrow and fear stole over him, pushing their way into his eyes.

He wanted to tell Dean that it wasn’t what he thought. Castiel wasn’t picking money or Evangelist over him. That wasn’t the reason at all. The reason was: _nothing could go wrong_.

And, if something did, it wasn’t Castiel who would pay the price. Michael knew his weak points. It was Dean and Sam’s wellbeing. Castiel couldn’t risk them. And, then, when this was over, when Michael was gone, he could be with them. He could be with Dean.

He prayed Dean would still want him.

“Just say yes,” Dean said, eyes pleading. “Come on, man. All this bullshit—it isn’t you. Come on.”

“Dean,” Castiel breathed out. It was very hard to do—breathe. But he used all the air in his lungs on Dean’s name. He said the only thing he could think of to make Dean leave: “They’re my family.”

It took a second for that to sink in, but Dean’s face hardened when it did, his eyes going razor sharp. “Me and Sam are your family. We’re the ones who care about you.” He bared his teeth. “Not them.”

It hurt. The words were like a thousand bleeding cuts. He wanted them to be true, and they hurt.

After a pause of silence, Dean scoffed a little. “Son of a bitch, I really thought you wanted this, too,” he said, disbelief and anger and humiliation coloring his tone. And then he said, “Guess not,” and the only thing Castiel heard was bitterness.

He knew Dean would have never come, never said any of this, if he didn’t think Castiel would choose him.

And that was the problem: Castiel wanted to choose him. How could Dean think otherwise? It was all he thought about.

“You should have never come tonight, Dean.”

Dean let out a wet sound, halfway to a laugh.

Castiel told himself to submerge himself back into the icy waters, to be numb. But, his eyes large and full of pressure, he opened his mouth, willing some string of words to come out that would make Dean understand, but nothing did. And then Michael swept into the room, his presence towering and oppressive. Meg was behind him, looking from Dean to Castiel like she was expecting a fight.

“Mr. Winchester, you’ve disturbed my private event long enough,” Michael said, seething under his cool demeanor. “I suggest you leave now before I call the—.”

Castiel’s heart leapt into his throat, because if Michael called the police, it’d be for more than Dean making a nuisance of himself. He’d make sure Dean never saw freedom again.

But Dean interrupted, voice low and rough and eyes still boring into Castiel. “Yeah, don’t worry, I’m going.”

He remained briefly, clearly hoping that Castiel would follow him. Everything in Castiel’s body pulled towards him as if a string connected them. But when it became abundantly clear that Castiel wasn’t going anywhere, the sides of Dean’s jaw bulged as he clenched it, and his eyes dulled before he ripped them away. He stomped out of the room and towards the main exit.

Castiel had to repress every instinct to call after him.

After a beat, when they were all certain Dean was gone—and he was, Castiel could feel the distance between them in his body—Michael turned to him, glaring. “Brother, we have an event to get back to. I suggest you go network.” He turned on his heels and paced out of the room, and Castiel understood the warning for what it was.

He knew he had to obey, even though he wanted nothing more than to go home and be alone.

With Michael gone, Castiel allowed himself to shatter slightly. He breathed out shakily, his lips still tingling from the touch of Dean’s kiss.

A gentle hand touched his arm, and Castiel realized Meg was still there. He’d nearly forgotten.

“You okay, Clarence?” she asked, concerned.

He wasn’t, but that didn’t really matter. He swallowed again, and straightened his posture, knowing it was best to go on with night as if nothing had ever happened. “Yes,” he told her. “I’m fine. Thank you, Meg. We should be getting back to the party.”

Her mouth fell open, and she gave an unsure sound as she glanced at the spot where Dean had disappeared from. “You sure? We could hang out in here for a while?”

He appreciated the offer, but it was unnecessary. He was fine. He wasn’t going to break down. He was okay. “We should be getting back,” he said again, his voice more even now. He felt the unbearable ache that had been in his chest subside until nothing was left.

He started out of the room. It took a second before Meg followed him.

///

Dean rang in the New Year working at Harvelle's, which was probably for the best because he didn't have anyone to kiss when the ball dropped at midnight. Not that he couldn't find a willing taker if he wanted to, but he wasn't really sure he wanted to. What he really didn't want to do was think about who Cas was kissing tonight, so he was pretty happy to keep himself distracted with the drunken crowd scream-counting down the seconds until the New Year.

Of course, that didn't really work out the way Dean had anticipated. His last thought of the year and first thought of the next were of Cas.

Because of course they were.

Almost as soon as the clock struck twelve, the text messages started rolling in. Sam, who was hanging out at his friend Andy's dorm with some other freshman, texted first, wishing him a Happy New Year. Charlie was next, adding that she wished he were at Gilda's party to ring in the New Year with them. Jo texted him, too. Dean responded to every one of them, and then texted Bobby for good measure. He wanted to text John, too, who had left for another route a few days ago, but he had no idea if it were midnight in whatever time zone his dad found himself in, so Dean decided to wait. He and Sam would call John in the morning.

He wanted to text Cas, too. And he wanted Cas to text him. Neither of those things happened. He liked to think that wasn’t just because he didn’t have Cas’ new number.

He kept Harvelle's open until about 3 AM, an hour later than usual, to wrap up the festivities with last call. People had been buying him shots all night to celebrate with them. When people usually did that, he filled up his own glass with clear or dyed water so he wouldn't get drunk on the job. But, what the hell? It was a holiday, and he hoped the buzz would take the edge off and get him out of his head.

All it did was make him mad about the spilled drinks making the tables and floors sticky, the new rip in the pool table, the stolen darts, and the confetti and streamers all over the floor that some asshole decided would be fun to toss around. At least the tip jar was overflowing.

Dean rubbed at his tired eyes, and almost trudged upstairs to see if Ash were home to help him clean up. But he took it upon himself to get out the broom, deciding to at least sweep up the confetti so the place didn't look like a total disaster in the morning when Ellen saw it. He'd be too hungover to clean with too much energy, anyway, so it was better to get the brunt of it over with.

It must have been close to 4 AM when Dean heard the front door open, bringing with it a blast of frigid January air. His back was turned as he restocked the bottles on the shelves behind the bar, but he guessed it was Ash getting back in. Dean really hadn't expected him to be out—but it looked like everyone but him was getting kissed tonight.

"What, back so soon? Lemme guess, some girl kicked you out of bed?" Dean joked, a bottle of Schnapps in one hand and vermouth in the other. He chuckled, and turned around as he said, "I keep telling you, man, chicks don’t dig a mull—."

His laughter died a sudden death.

Michael Novak was standing in the entrance. He had one hand shoved into the pocket of his gray three-piece suit, his long black peacoat bunched back in the stance. His other hand was gloved in leather as it hung perfectly still at his side. He peered expressionlessly at Dean through his hazel eyes under the brim of his hat. He looked like a million bucks—hell, three million bucks. His sense of superiority, so deep-seated he probably didn’t even know it existed, dripped off of him.

Dean had never felt so violated, and all Michael was doing was standing there. But this was his bar. And it was still one of the only godforsaken things in this town that the Novaks didn't own.

"We're closed," Dean barked, his fists tightening around the necks of the glass bottles in case he had to use them as weapons.

How had Michael even found him? How the hell did people keep finding out where he worked?

"I'm not here to imbibe," Michael said, and walked further into the bar. He glanced around, seeming unimpressed by the appearance of the place, like it could be sparkling clean and it'd still be too dirty for him.

Dean put on a twisted smile, and tried to lean back on humor. "Well, kitchen's closed, too."

"Relax, Mr. Winchester, I won't be here long enough to partake in whatever . . . grease-soaked food you have to offer. I’ve come because I think it's time you and I had a chat."

He took off his hat, revealing his slicked back dark hair that might have looked exactly like Cas' if there wasn't so much gel in it, and placed it down on the bar. He sat down on the stool across from Dean, making himself at home.

Dean glared at him. "What makes you think I'm interested in anything you got to say?"

"Because you have an interest in my brother," Michael answered bluntly, and Dean almost broke one of the bottles against the counter and threatened him with the shards. He put both bottles down before he did something really stupid.

"You mean when you're not pulling on his leash?" Dean spat back.

Michael seemed completely unfazed. "Quite the opposite, Mr. Winchester. Castiel was on the path to success and a bright future under my guidance—before he met you, of course. I'm hoping we can pave out this little bump in the road so he doesn't find himself tempted to stray again. It's what's best for everyone involved, wouldn't you say?"

No, Dean would not say that. In fact, Dean didn't see anyone benefiting from it other than the guy he was staring at. He hummed out a derisive laugh. "Yeah, well, I don't know if you've noticed, but Cas and me ain't exactly Butch and Sundance these days."

"But you'd like to be. I can see it all over your face. It's evident in your hatred for me, and your apparent inability to control yourself."

Dean really didn't know if he was just that obvious, or if the ability to read minds ran in the Novaks' family.

"And, for whatever reason, he's taken with you."

Dean squared his jaw, and tried really hard to keep glaring directly at Michael, but he faltered. He didn't want to think about Cas forcing himself to stay away, about Cas in pain. Even if he was the one who broke it off, even if his reasons were stupid. Dean knew Cas was only trying to protect him, and Michael was really the one keeping them apart.

But Cas had made his decision, and he chose to fall in line. And it was so easy to want to hate him for that. Dean decided he'd rage against the Novaks' will enough for the both of them.

"Get to the point," Dean told him. "I can't hold my breath with you stinking up the place forever."

Michael reached inside his coat, and Dean tensed momentarily before he realized he was pulling out a checkbook and a fountain pen. He opened the checkbook on the counter and hovered the tip of his pen over the box for the dollar amount.

"I understand you and your brother are in need of financial assistance. It's why you became a drug dealer in the first place, isn't it?" Michael asked.

Dean snorted at him. "Yeah, you mean for your drugs?"

Michael blinked, his expression not changing, like he had no idea what Dean was talking about but it didn’t really matter much to him, anyway. After a second, he said, "I'm going to cut you a check for cash. I'd like you to spend it any way you see fit—for your living situation, to pay for your brother's education. I personally couldn't care less. My only stipulation is that you break off all contact with Castiel. That means no more surprise visits, no more crashing our family parties, no more running into him at school functions, no more making a nuisance of yourself."

Dean blanched. His first reaction was seething rage—because, _seriously_? What was this, some kind of 80s movie where Michael was the villain? Was he kidding?

But then Dean's eyes fell down to glance at the checkbook, and his throat worked in a moment of weakness. Because this could solve all their problems. All he had to do was say a number and they'd never have to worry about paying the bills again. It would help Sam with law school; John wouldn't have to be on the road all the time. They could be together again, as a family.

But no. No, Dean couldn't do that. He couldn’t sell himself out like that—he couldn't sell Cas out. Michael Novak owned the whole damn town, and Dean wouldn't allow himself to be bought.

He looked up at Michael, fire in his eyes. He did his best to keep his voice from shaking with rage and offense. "I'm gonna say this once, you understand me? I'm not taking your money. I don't want anything to do with you. I don't want anything to do with Cas. You get the fuck out of my bar, and you leave me and my brother alone. Got it?"

Michael looked like he had expected some pushback. Hell, he almost looked like he didn’t believe Dean was serious. “Are you certain? It’s quite a bit of money.”

Dean would have snorted if he weren’t so furious. “You could give me all the money in the world, answer’d still be the same. Answer’s choke on a dick and die, by the way.”

“Is that a threat, Mr. Winchester?” Michael asked, raising his brows in interest.

Dean was tempted to say yes, but then he’d probably have the cops on his ass again for attempted assassination or whatever Michael would make it out to be. Instead, he gestured his arms out wide. “You see me offering you any dicks to suck?”

As if the language offended him, Michael tensed. “I hope you don’t kiss your mother with that mouth.”

And that was just _it_.

“No, but I’ve kissed your brother with it plenty’a times and he don’t seem to mind. So, why don’t you goosestep on out of here before we really have a problem.”

Michael stared at him long and hard for what felt like an eternity, and Dean forced himself to not even blink. Then, he closed the checkbook and tucked it back into his inside pocket. He stood up, and plucked his hat off the bar.

"Have it your way," he said. "But you better pray we don’t meet again. The next time I come back, it won't be with a checkbook."

Dean balled his fists at his sides, not letting himself rise to the bait or shrink under the threat.

Michael placed his hat back on his head, and smiled. It was an ugly, brilliant smile. "Have a prosperous year, Dean."

He turned on his expensive heels, and walked out.

As soon as the door shut, Dean let out a breath, the air so deep in his lungs that it tasted stale on the way out. He slumped against the counter, leaning into his hands.

It hadn't even been five hours, and this year had already gotten off to a shitty start.


	18. Chapter 18

The exterior of the prison looked like a governmental office one might find in a state capital or Washington, D.C. It had an expanse of greenery inside the tall gates that might as well have been the National Mall, and Castiel had eyed the high Roman pillars on the wings of the building that jutted out on either side of the domed center. He checked in at the security desk in a marble rotunda with ceilings at least forty feet over his head, and he had to empty his pockets and walk through a metal detector before someone in the navy uniform blazer and khakis brought him to the visitors’ room.

He’d seen museums with less stringent security, and probably less cushy surroundings. But it was, in fact, a jail. He reminded himself of that as he peered around the room scattered with small white tables and chairs. There was one other couple present: a man in a pristine white jumpsuit and a woman in a power suit. There was a bored security officer standing by the door.

Something beeped, and the security officer stood a little more to attention as the door opened and another guard came through. Lucifer was with him, sporting a white jumpsuit of his own. It was immaculate, as if it had just been freshly pressed. Castiel stood up from the table and squinted at his brother as Lucifer and the guard approached. Lucifer looked roughly the same as he had before he’d been sent to prison—except, perhaps, his hair was a little longer and there were more wrinkles around his blue eyes. His sharp jaw was shaven cleanly, and he was already grinning as he spotted Castiel.

Castiel’s gut squirmed a little at that smile. It was feral, that of a wild animal’s at the moment it knew its prey was ripe for the catch. It was a kneejerk reaction for Castiel to be wary of it, because he’d only ever seen it before Lucifer pushed him down the stairs or stole his ice cream or cut off one of Anna’s pigtails. But he tried to smile back, no matter how weakly. He didn’t think it reached his eyes—or even his lips, for that matter. He kept frowning as Lucifer came to rest at the opposite side of the table.

They were both quiet for a moment, sizing each other up, and then Lucifer held his arms out wide as if expecting a bear hug, but thankfully touching was forbidden. “Well, well, if it isn’t Castiel? Long time no see, bro.” He dropped his arms and sat down sideways on the chair, and the guard at his shoulder drifted away to the other side of the room. Lucifer scrunched his nose up at Castiel as he folded one leg over the other. “Something different about you? Wait, don’t tell me. New haircut? No? Is that a new shirt?”

Castiel rolled his eyes. Lucifer hadn’t seen him in years. Physically, he’d changed quite a bit in that time. He sat down in the chair across the table.

“Gotta say, it’s kinda nice seeing a familiar face besides Uriel’s. He’s _sooo-ooo_ boring. Such a yes man. Agrees with everything I say,” he rolled his head, his neck popping in the motion. Then, he shook out, a bit as if he were a puppy at dinnertime. He drummed his hands against the table, creating a dull metallic sound. “So, what’s up? Why the visit? Finally realize you miss me?”

Castiel blinked at him levelly. Lucifer had always been prone to dramatics, as well as overly flamboyant, but this was different. He used to have a certain calm about him that all the Novaks possessed. He’d been restrained and self-possessed, even in anger. Castiel didn’t see a trace of that anymore. He seemed . . . free. It was a strange thought because, as Castiel again reminded himself, Lucifer was in jail.

“I want to ask you a few questions,” Castiel told him. “About our family. And . . .” He paused, wondering if this was a good idea, after all. Lucifer had no reason to help him. In fact, he would probably spoon-feed Castiel fabricated stories as a way to entertain his own boredom. But Castiel had driven an hour out of Lawrence for this meeting. There was no harm in gathering information, even if he’d have to take it with a grain of salt.

“About the company,” he finished.

Lucifer had stilled slightly, and he almost appeared as if he’d expected this from Castiel. “Mm-hmm,” he hummed after what felt like a long time. He sat back in his chair and regarded Castiel up and down. “Let me guess. They let you in on the real profit driver, huh?”

Castiel’s eyes flickered down to the table. It may have been better to tell the truth in this instance. He couldn’t feign knowledge for very long, as he had with Crowley, with someone who knew the ins and outs of the business. Besides, the family had ostracized Lucifer, just as they neglected to welcome Castiel into the fold. He wouldn’t go as far as to say their situations were similar, or that he was anything like his brother, but perhaps Lucifer could understand his anger. Perhaps he would even have some of his own.

After all, he’d had a lot of time to think while in jail.

“No,” Castiel admitted, raising his eyes. “But I know.”

Lucifer let out a breath, amused and almost impressed. "Oh-ho, sport. I gotta say—," he rested his elbow on the table and pointed a lofty finger at Castiel. "I never took you for the conniving type."

"I'm not your sport," Castiel told him, not caring if his dislike for his brother showed.

Lucifer seemed to take it in stride. "Fine," he said. "So, what d'you wanna know?"

On the drive over, Castiel had thought up a laundry list of questions he'd wanted to ask, but none of them seemed as paramount as this: "How long? How long has our family been doing this?"

Lucifer snorted. "Gosh, let me think. One, two, three—," he started, exaggerating by counting on his fingers. "Forever."

"Evangelist," Castiel said, trying to make sense of it all, "it was set up to launder the money?"

"Well, no," Lucifer said, squinting a little as his voice went up in pitch. "It was a legitimate business, until dear old Dad realized there was a better way of owning the town than acquiring its mom and pop shops. It's one thing to own Main Street, but the people? See, you gotta own them, too—without them knowing it. So, you buy their goods and services and healthcare and schools just to sell it all back to them, and then you use it for your own gain. You create problems, then solve them, and everyone thinks you’re the hero."

Castiel couldn't quite keep up. He understood it all logically, but he didn't know why anyone would want to do that. "Why? For money?"

"Money . . ." he said, dragging the word out like that wasn't quite the one he'd use. He glanced up through his lashes. "Power."

Castiel stared at him.

"See, that's all Dad needed. His own little world that he could shape into whatever he wanted."

Dean had once suggested that Castiel's father had a god complex. Perhaps he'd been right.

"But, why?"

Lucifer laughed. "Why? What the fuck do you mean, why? Doesn't everybody?"

Castiel shook his head. "No. I don't."

Lucifer looked at him like he didn't buy it. "Castiel. Please. Don't tell me you never thought you were better than everyone else because of your last name?"

Castiel opened his mouth to protest, but his argument withered in his chest. He realized Lucifer was right. He'd always seen himself as a kind of shepherd to the people of the town. His father, Michael—they'd told him that he was a leader, an example, for the community. So much of what he believed had been shaped by that notion. It was why he volunteered at the orphanage, why he got straight A's in a subject he hated, why he'd broken it off with Dean. Because that was the way of the world according to the Novaks. It was the world according to him.

"See? Right there," Lucifer said as if Castiel had just given him what he wanted. "Just like everyone else—you fell for the lie."

Castiel bit down on his lips and looked downwards, trying to compose himself. He needed to regain control of this situation. He couldn't let Lucifer know how much he was affecting him. "The lie?"

"The Big Lie," Lucifer went on, and Castiel could practically hear the capital letters. "That Evangelist is here to help, that the Novak name is good and holy, and Daddy knew best. He didn't care about us. He just used us to keep selling the lie." He pointed his finger on the table, pressing down until his first knuckle bent backwards and his skin turned red and white; and then he removed it and pointed towards the dying light outside the window as if it were proving him right. "Truth is, he only cared about controlling us and everybody else."

There was anger in his voice, Castiel realized. Lucifer was bitter about this. He was angry with their father. He was angry for being abandoned by them.

"That's why Gabe and Anna jumped ship. They saw the light and wanted to get the hell away. Same with Mom." Castiel looked up again, shocked that their mother had even been brought up.

"And me?" Lucifer laughed and shook his head. "I tried to tell people. For years—I tried to draw attention to Evangelist. Tried to get people to know the truth. But did anyone listen to me? _No_! They _blamed_ me. They locked me up in a cage like I'm the bad guy! Like all of this is my fault!"

Castiel scrunched his brows together. Is that truly what Lucifer thought? Did he really consider himself absolved of all blame? It was laughable and twisted.

"You?" Castiel said, knowing his brother was full of shit. "You tried to stop it? By embezzling millions?"

"Duh," Lucifer said, like it was all so obvious. Like that was the logical thing to do. "Don't get me wrong—the trips to Maui were a bonus, but I wasn't exactly subtle about what I was doing. I wanted people to dig into us. I wanted them to see Evangelist for what it really is. What I did was just the tip of the iceberg."

Castiel almost really did laugh that time. "You really believe that?"

"Yeah, why do you think I did it, sport?" Lucifer exclaimed, gesturing out his hands on top of the table as if he were opening up a world of knowledge. "To tear it all down! Expose Pop for the fraud he really is!"

Castiel narrowed his eyes at him, not believing that for a moment. Of course, Lucifer would see it like that. He would twist the story to think of himself as a hero, but Castiel heard the truth underneath. He'd been acting in his own self-interest.

"You nearly toppled Evangelist," Castiel told him. "The town went into a recession. Many people lost their jobs, their livelihoods."

Lucifer sat back heavily, rolling his eyes as if those were meaningless details. "Yeah, yeah. But you gotta look at the bigger picture! The greater good!"

Castiel almost agreed with him, if that truly had been Lucifer's intention, but it wasn't. "You nearly decimated the town because you wanted our father to stop controlling you," he said, gritting his teeth through it. "You were throwing a temper tantrum. You didn't care about anyone but yourself."

Lucifer looked angry for a moment, his eyes darkening beneath his bushy brows. But then the lines of his expression evened out, and something like humor tugged at his lips. "And you do, right?"

Castiel liked to believe that were true—that he was acting in the interest of helping people. But he didn't know if that were completely true. He didn't even really know what he was planning to do with this information. Part of him just wanted to know it. And he wondered how he might use it to free himself from Michael, to go back to Dean.

Regardless, Lucifer hadn't been looking for an answer. He shrugged casually. "So, I wanted to get back at Dad. So what?" He screwed his eyes up, tilting his head from one side to the other like he was weighing something. "Of course, I didn't think it'd get me stuck in here. Thought it'd just be a slap on the wrist—a couple months sittin' poolside on house arrest. Still. Could be worse."

Castiel frowned, shaken out of his thoughts. Lucifer seemed as if he were speaking in specifics. "Worse, how?"

"Well," he said, leaning forward again. Dramatically, he threw a glance at the security guards and then spoke out of the corner of his mouth in a stage whisper. "Between you and me—I couldda ended up like those poor saps I'd been feeding information to over the years. Well, the ones who got too close, anyway. Once Evangelist caught wind of them— _wooh_! Watch out, am I right?" His last words were nearly lost to a laugh.

Castiel shook his head, not understanding. "Who?"

"Some cops, a few reporters," was the answer. Castiel looked downwards in thought, a sense of cold dread stealing over them. Lucifer continued, but Castiel barely heard him saying, "The ones who Pop couldn't buy off needed to be silenced. So—," he made a hissing sound and ran the tip of his finger across his throat.

No. No, that couldn't be right. Drugs were one thing, but murder? "You're lying."

Lucifer pulled down the corners of his mouth in a frown and shook his head, making a thoughtful sound as if considering the possibility. "No . . . Nope. Not lying. Don't need to this time."

Castiel thought he was going to be sick. The nausea was made worse when a single thought occurred to him. "One of the reporters," he said, not certain if he wanted the answer, "Was her name Mary Winchester?"

It would make sense. Michael seemed to know Dean's name somehow—months ago, before they'd even met. Michael had wanted Castiel to stay away from the Winchesters.

But that would mean Michael was involved in the murders, too.

"Hmm. Might ring a bell. Why?"

"She's dead," Castiel heard himself say from somewhere behind glass. "She died eighteen years ago in a fire."

It didn't seem to phase Lucifer. He propped one arm up with the other by the elbow and tapped at his bottom lip with his index finger. "Could be. That is Alastair's MO. Making it look like an accident."

Alastair. Castiel had heard that name before. His insides roiled as he recalled where he'd heard it. "Who's Alastair?" he demanded. Everything seemed suddenly so urgent.

Lucifer chuckled. "Oh, Castiel!" he called, seemingly delighted. "You really gotta read up on the company handbook. He's our own personal insurance policy. Kind of like a repo man. Whenever there's a problem, he makes them—," he fluttered his fingers, "go away."

Castiel must have looked pale as a ghost. It was how he felt. "He killed people . . . under our employ?"

He shrugged again. "I mean, if you really wanna be black and white about it, yeah."

But, if Michael were negotiating with a hit man so recently, that could only mean he had a job for Alastair. Someone was going to get killed. And Castiel had a sinking feeling he knew who it was.

He had to go. He had to get Dean to safety. Alastair could already be on his way. He and Sam needed protection until Castiel could find a way to call this off.

He jumped up so quickly that, if the chair hadn't been bolted down, it would have clattered to the floor. He rushed towards the exit, the guards suddenly standing to attention.

Behind him, he heard Lucifer call, "What's the matter, Castiel? Leaving so soon? Don't you wanna play a round of golf? Come on!"

The guards opened the door for him, and Castiel swept out as quickly as he could into the hallway.

"Don't forget to write! I could use a pen pal!" Lucifer shouted after him as the door swung closed again, muffling his voice.

Castiel heard his shoes echoing on the walls of the hallway as he marched down it. Another guard was posted at the locked door leading into the rotunda, and Castiel clenched his fists as the guard paged in for the door to open. There was a beep, followed by the booming of deadlocks opening, and Castiel rushed out. He was pulling his cell phone out of his pocket before he was even outside the building. The sun had gone down completely now, and the white spotlights on the roof and along the perimeter of the fence in the distance were the only sources of light.

Dean's line rang and rang, and eventually went to his voicemail. Even on the recorded message, the sound of his voice was enough to almost punch a sob out of Castiel. He hadn't heard that voice in what felt like years.

He ended the call, letting out a frustrated noise as he did, and called back. Dean still didn't pick up.

But Sam might.

As Castiel made for his car, he tried Sam's line. His stomach sloshed and his fingertips buzzed with anxiety as he feared Sam would ignore him, too. But, just when he was about to lose hope, the ringing cut off, and there was a pause before Sam said, "Hello?"

Castiel nearly wept. “Sam.”

“Cas?” There Sam was—perplexed and concerned, as if he anticipated Castiel needed help. He'd drop everything to aid him, too. But he should have been worried about his brother. Because Dean was the one in trouble and this was all Castiel's fault. If he'd been there to protect Dean. If he'd never gotten close in the first place . . .

"Sam," Castiel said again, hopping into his car. He tried to breathe. "Where's Dean?"

He didn't bother buckling in or even letting the engine turn over completely before stepping on the gas and speeding down the road towards the main gate.

Sam stammered a little, clearly unsure whether to tell Castiel about Dean's whereabouts. "Uh, work," he finally said.

"Where? Bobby's?"

The gate was closed when he got there, and the attendant inside the gatehouse didn't appear to understand the urgency of the situation. He was moving far too slowly. Castiel laid the heel of his palm down on the horn, causing it to blare continuously. The guard shot him a dirty look, and all it did was cause Castiel's annoyance to flare even more.

Over the commotion, Sam said, "No—uh, Harvelle's, I think. That's where he said he'd be tonight."

Slowly, the gate began rolling open on its tracks. Castiel took his hand off the horn and bounced a little in his seat, willing the gate to move faster.

"Cas, what's wrong?" Sam asked, sounding a little more shaken than before.

Castiel wouldn't lie to him, but he couldn't explain. He doubted Sam was the focus of any real danger, but Castiel had no doubt he would rush to Dean's side, into harm's way, if he knew the truth. It was better to keep the brothers apart for the time being.

As soon as the gap in the gate was wide enough, Castiel floored it and drove right through. If he sped, he could make it to Harvelle's in forty-five minutes. For the first time, he was grateful for his new car. It moved a lot faster than his truck did.

"I'll explain everything," Castiel told him, a hot wire of guilt wrapping around his heart at keeping Sam in the dark, but he had no choice. He just hoped Sam trusted him, not that he'd given him reason to. "Please, Sam, just—stay where you are."

He made to hang up so he could focus on the road, but Sam must have sensed that, because he hurried to say, "Wait, wait, wait! Cas. What the hell's going on? Is Dean in trouble?"

Castiel gritted his teeth. He didn't know what to say. He felt terrible, but he couldn't worry about this right now. Keeping his voice even, he said, "I have to go." He heard Sam attempt to keep him on the line again, but he ignored it and hung up. He tossed his phone into the backseat so that he wasn't tempted to pick it up again if Sam called back. And he drove, stepping down on the gas until the engine whirled—and it was impossible, but briefly, Castiel thought he heard it click. That familiar sound that only Dean could fix.

But who cared if it did? Dean could fix it later. They could fix it. Together.

Because he wouldn't live without Dean Winchester in the world. He couldn't imagine it—life without those gold-speckled green eyes, and how they paled into a forest color in the morning light. Without those freckles like scattered constellations in the night sky. The mountain ranges of his knuckles and the ridges of his ribs, the cliff of his nose, the canyons of his spine. The plane of his back and expanse of his chest, where Castiel could rest his head and feel at home.

No more of his laughter like a spring breeze. No more strands of hair that turned to the colors of wheat and clay in the summer light. No more glances as warm as the sun. No more low voice like gravel and earth. No more Dean.

Castiel drove, trying to fight back the feeling that he was already too late.

///

Dean probably wouldn't have noticed the sun had gone down if it hadn't been for the timers on the neon beer signs in the windows kicking on, washing the glass in a glow of greens and blues. He'd been at Harvelle's for most of the day, since opening at 1 PM, but there hadn't been many customers, just a few of the usual suspects drifting in for a shot or two before heading back out.

A group of frat boys had stopped in a little earlier, too, to order lite beers and play a piss-poor game of pool and generally give Dean a migraine from their shouts and laughter. The only good part about it was when Jo swung by after school and hustled them out of fifty bucks at Galaga. After they left, Dean snuck her a beer from the fridge while she did her homework at the bar and he restocked the shelves.

Harvelle's was always dead this early in the night, but it was Friday, so Dean decided to enjoy the quiet before the masses of drunk college kids descended in a few hours. He swept the floors, refilled the pretzel bowls, wiped down the tables, and flicked on the overhead lights. The TV above the bar was airing some football game, but the picture was too grainy to determine who was playing. Actually, the set was so old, Dean wouldn't be surprised if it were stuck back in time and playing a game from the '90s.

He was chopping up garnishes behind the bar when the front door opened up, and Ash walked through, a mess of loose-knotted wires and what looked like a dusty game console bundled against his chest. He ran his free hand through his hair, tussling his mullet like he was trying to tame the wind-swept strands.

"Hey," Dean greeted, and Ash let out a little surprised sound like he hadn't even seen Dean there.

"Yo, Dean. How long you been here?" he said, walking further into the room.

It still astounded Dean that Ash lived right upstairs and he still had no idea when Dean was working. But, to be fair, Dean didn't know Ash's elusive schedule, and he was a little scared to ask. He didn't even really know how Ash paid rent, other than the fact that Ellen had given Ash the upstairs under the bargain that he'd help out in the bar when needed—which was something he never actually did for as long as Dean had known him.

Ignoring the question, Dean kept on slicing the lime on the scratched up cutting board in front of him. He gestured his chin towards the machine in Ash's arms. "Gonna do some gaming?" He knew he'd regret asking as soon as the question came out of him.

"What? Oh—no, man." Ash lifted the gaming console a little higher and looked down to study it. "I'm gonna see if I can turn it into a rocket launcher."

Yeah, Dean definitely regretted it, and decided not to ask any more questions. He closed his eyes and shook his head, letting the answer pass over him.

"Okay. Or," he said, "you could help me with the rush tonight."

Ash glanced around the empty room. "Doesn't look very busy to me."

"Well, yeah, right now," Dean allowed. He pointed his knife at the non-existent patrons. "But this place is gonna be crawling with freshman soon."

"Weren't you supposed to stop serving minors?"

Dean sighed heavily. Yeah, he was, and he had for a while there—when he actually had money to spare, and when he was playing it safe after he got arrested. But the old bank account was starting to run low again, so he did what he had to.

"You wanna help or not?" he asked, already knowing the answer. "C'mon, we'll split the tips fifty-fifty."

Ash furrowed his brow like the prospect of money was foreign to him. "What do I need tips for?" he asked, and Dean only blinked at him once before he started walking towards the steps leading upstairs.

It really wasn't worth the effort. "Fine. At least keep it down up there, would ya?"

"No can do, compadre," Ash threw over his shoulder, and then he let the door close behind him and the thumping of his booted footsteps ascended the stairs. Not a minute later, music was blaring and there was the loud whirl of what sounded like a chainsaw.

Again, Dean didn't ask. He just went back to cutting his lime. His knife slipped slightly on the juices bleeding out, and he focused on not cutting his finger so badly he'd had to drive himself to the hospital. He could just see it now.

The front door opened again, and Dean glanced up quickly to register there was a customer, which was rare for this time of night, but not unheard of. And then he froze when his mind caught up to him. Because that customer looked familiar.

He looked up again, this time slower, and saw the man he'd given directions to outside Bobby's garage during the snowstorm. The man was rubbing his hands together in attempt to get the cold out of his bony fingers, and he regarded the vacant room as he walked towards the counter.

"Oh, my. You don't happen to be closed, do you?" he asked in that nasally voice that sounded a little bit like nails on a chalkboard.

Dean realized he'd stopped cutting, but his fist had tightened over the knife. And his throat had gone dry. He shook away the feeling of dread crawling up the back of his neck, because this was stupid. It was just a guy—a customer. He was probably just a visitor in town and staying close by.

"Uh, no. We're open," Dean told him after clearing his throat.

"Excellent," the man said, and slid onto a stool directly in front of Dean. At once, he stuck his hands into the pretzel bowl there, making the snacks inside scratch and rustle against the sides. Dean had the passing thought that he'd have to throw out the whole bowl now, because that guy's hands were probably filthy, no matter how clean and white they looked. "What's your specialty?" he asked, bringing one pretzel to his mouth and snapping it in half between his rotting teeth.

Dean looked back down, focusing on his task so he wouldn't have to look the guy in the eyes. "Old fashioned," he said.

"Well, sold." The man shot him a crooked, sharp smile. Dean walked away, getting to work with his order.

As he did, he could feel the man eyeing him. It wasn't long until he put one elbow on the counter and pointed a long finger at him, and Dean felt like the Grimm Reaper was singling him out. "Say, you look familiar. Have we met before?"

Dean pretended to look up and assess the guy. He turned away again quickly. "Don't think so."

Upstairs, Ash's music changed, bass no quieter than the previous song.

"No, I'm sure of it." He snapped his fingers. "You're that nice young man that gave me directions when I first got to town."

Dean didn't know why it irked him that the guy remembered him.

"Oh, right," he said, playing it off as he finished the drink. "Guess you found the place okay." He set the drink on a napkin in front of the guy, ignoring the stale stench of cigarette smoke coming off of his clothes.

"All thanks to you," the guy said, and took a sip. "And you weren't kidding about your specialty."

Dean gave him a tight smile, and wondered if it would be too obvious if he moved the cutting board away.

"The name's Alastair, by the way."

No way Dean was giving him his name, too. "Uh, great. You in town for long?"

The man ran the pad of his finger in a circle over the wet rim of the rocks glass, causing a faint ringing sound. "Oh, no. Just finishing up a job and then I'm gone."

"Yeah? What do you do?" Dean asked just to be polite. He hoped that the guy would keep talking about himself so he wouldn't have time to ask Dean about his own life before he finished his drink.

"I'm a contractor, you might say," he answered, and moved his hand to wrap it around the glass. There was a clinking sound and he tapped his nail against it. "I do some work for Evangelist."

Dean wanted to roll his eyes. Of course, he did.

Alastair sipped his drink again, and let out an " _mmm_ " sound of enjoyment. "This really is quite good. You may have a talent, Dean."

Dean nodded. "Thanks—."

He stopped abruptly, his heart jumping up into his throat. He'd very specifically not told the guy his name.

Pulse slamming against his skin, he deliberately fisted the handle of the knife. "Who the hell are you?"

He wondered if he had enough time to get to the door. The main door to the street was too far, but the one behind the bar was easy. He could get to that in no time if he sprinted, but then that would just lead him to the back parking lot, which was pretty secluded. It wasn't exactly a safe place, especially in the dark.

Maybe if he got upstairs to Ash. They could barricade in and call someone. Safety in numbers and all that.

"Dean, Dean, Dean," Alastair tutted with amusement, standing up from the stool. He picked up his drink. "Do you really think you'll get very far with a paring knife?" He walked towards the end of the bar, and rounded the back of it.

Dean straightened out, his blood pumping in his ears and his eyes unblinking. He faced Alastair fully, knife still in his hand, and edged backwards as Alastair walked forward.

Alastair reached into his coat, and Dean locked up, because he had nowhere to go. Ellen kept a gun, but it was in the safe in the back office—and what a fucking stupid place for that to be. Like Dean was supposed to remember the code under this kind of stress? Like Alastair would wait for Dean to run back there and get it out?

"Especially when mine's bigger," Alastair taunted, and took out what looked like an old hunting knife. The tip of it was dyed with rust—or, hell, Dean hoped it was rust and not blood soaked in so deep it would never wash off, like pasta sauce on old Tupperware. But, then again, if he didn't die quickly of a stab wound, he'd die slowly of tetanus, so what was the good news here?

Fuck all that. He was getting outside. He'd figure out the rest from there.

He sprang into action as quickly as he could, whipping around and sprinting towards the back door. He heard Alastair running after him, and Dean practically fell against the metal when he reached the door. He yanked it halfway open before he felt something slam into him from behind, effectively closing the door and pressing his front against it.

He felt one of Alastair's hands on his head, fingers tugging at his hair, while the other held the tip of the knife against his shoulder blade.

"I really hate it when they run. The brave ones never run," Alastair told him like all of this was one big inconvenience. And then, "Your mother was a brave one."

Dean felt himself go cold and numb, his body pressed against the door and his cheek against the metal. He had no idea what Alastair meant by that, but he reacted viscerally before the words processed fully in his mind. He wanted to throw up.

He had to get out of there.

He lunged his elbow back blindly, connecting with Alastair's ribs. Alastair yelped out and reeled backwards, and Dean didn't even think. He ran towards the other side of the bar, swiping his hands against the back counter so bottles would topple over and smash on the floor and papers and binders would create obstacles in his wake.

"Ash!" he shouted, hoping that Ash would hear him over the racket upstairs, but he doubted he'd have any luck.

Alastair caught up to him a lot more quickly than Dean had anticipated, a bony hand gripping his shoulder and spinning him around. Dean swung, his knuckles landing against Alastair's jaw with a pop. Alastair's hand only tightened around him, and he recovered from the blow with a red-stained smile.

Dean reeled his arm back, getting ready for another punch, but Alastair used his grip as leverage to pull him in closer, causing Dean to lose his balance before he was thrown backwards. He stumbled, his lower back connecting sharply to the end of the bar.

Alastair came forward, and Dean remembered the knife still in his hand. He swiped the tiny blade through the air, making Alastair jump back to avoid it. His head was swimming frantically and his spine was aching. He could still feel the burn in his scalp from where his hair had been pulled. He swiped out again and again in warning, just hoping that Alastair would come close enough to get cut.

God, Dean was such an idiot. All this time, random assholes had been coming into his bar threatening him, somehow knowing where he worked. And he'd actually given directions to the one asshole that was there to kill him.

But he'd be damned if he was going to die. Sam needed him. And he needed Sam—because there was no way he'd last a day in the afterlife without his brother there with him.

His dad needed him.

And Cas—fuck, he needed to make things right with Cas. He couldn't die when they were still broken up. That wasn't supposed to happen. He was supposed to die old and wrinkled and in his sleep with Cas lying next to him—and he didn't even know he'd wanted that until just now.

Alastair dodged his own knife forward, hitting Dean's forearm at the exact right time. Dean hissed at the stinging pain as blood oozed up. It wasn't a deep cut at all, but it threw him off just long enough.

He didn't even realize what was happening until his vision was darkening around the corners and his temple felt like it had been split open. Everything was sideways and spinning.

Alastair's hand was back in Dean's hair, and he used it to pick Dean up again and slam his face back down against the bar. Dean's knees buckled under him, making him collapse into a kneel. And then Alastair released him, and Dean couldn't control his body. He fell limply to the side, crumpling on the floor.

Something was pounding. Distantly, he realized it was Ash's music.

It took him a minute to realize Alastair was speaking. His words echoed as if they were in a catacomb.

". . . you really never know who you can trust these days," he was saying, his voice chilling Dean to his core. Dean tried to get his palms under him, tried to pull himself up. His head was hurting so badly, he didn't even know which way up was.

"Except when they're paying you. And, let me tell you, Michael Novak paid me a pretty penny to make you go away. And, as it turns out, you aren't even a threat. You're just some punk kid."

He wasn't sure where Alastair's voice was coming from. It felt like it was coming from everywhere. But he did hear something sloshing against wood, like Alastair was pouring liquid over the bar. As it spread, some of it began to drip off the edges. Each droplet tickled Dean's cheek where it landed, and they tasted like whiskey when they rolled down to his lips.

And then Alastair was back, hauling Dean up from the floor with dizzying speed. Dean's body was limp around him as Alastair made him sit up against the end of the bar. Then, Alastair squatted in front of him, knife still loose in his grip as he rested his arms on his knees and eyed Dean.

Vaguely, Dean realized the least he could do was glare, but he couldn't even manage that. He was just trying his best to stay conscious at this point.

"So, tell me, Dean. What did you do to piss him off so much?"

In his head, Dean answered with a big old, _fuck you_. He didn’t understand why he couldn’t speak.

Alastair hummed, like it really didn't matter.

"Well, I suppose I get paid either way," he mused, and put the knife away. He reached into his other pocket and took out a cigarette lighter. He stared down at it, fiddling with the igniter.

Dean thought of his mom. Her blonde curls. The lines around her mouth when she smiled. The way the flames burst out of the second floor window as he watched from the street, Sam wrapped in blankets in his arms.

"Anyway. Bye, Dean. Thanks for the drink." Alastair picked himself up and walked in the direction of the front door. His footsteps paused momentarily, and Dean heard something click, and then there were footsteps again. And then the sound of a door closing.

Dean told himself to get up, to get out of there. Alastair had left him alive. Maybe he hadn't been there to kill him, just to rough him up. Maybe Michael only wanted to scare Dean since he couldn't buy him off.

But then, distantly, something tickled Dean's nostrils, and he realized it was smoke. Something was burning. Pretty soon, everything would be burning.

Dean would get up. He'd get up and get out. He just had to collect his strength first. He just had to clear his head and stop the fuzzy vignette from encroaching into his vision.

It was getting a little hard to breathe, and something caught the corner of his eye. Something blue. He rolled his head to the side against the wood of the bar, and watched the flames spread on the stools. The top of the counter was glowing blue as the alcohol burned off. The neon signs in the window were awash with the same color.

Dean blinked his eyes closed and thought of blue.

///

Castiel could hear the alarm from down the block. He didn't quite know what it was at first, but it warbled down the empty street leading to Harvelle's. He didn't smell the smoke until he was right on top of the building, where its stench filtered into his car and tickled his nose.

He didn't bother parking straight outside the bar, and one wheel ended up on top of the curb. His seatbelt was off before he even put it in park, and he left the door open, its warning ding barely audible over the screaming of Harvelle's smoke alarm, as he jumped out of the vehicle.

Through the windows of the bar, a flickering orange and red lit up the darkness, but the flames weren't quite high enough yet to cast their glow out onto the sidewalk. For a moment, all Castiel could do was stare, frozen in place as the bright light of the fire burned into his irises so that he could still see it whenever he blinked. He couldn't hear any fire engine sirens in the distance, which meant they weren't on their way yet. But maybe Dean wasn't inside. Maybe he had gotten out.

It was wishful thinking, and Castiel knew in his bones that it wasn't true. Dean was inside, the smoke blackening his skin and the fire licking around him. It would consume him completely if Castiel didn't hurry.

He dove halfway into the backseat where he'd tossed his phone, and scrambled for it on the seat. He quickly dialed 9-1-1, and listened to the line ring once before the operator picked up.

"9-1-1, what's your—?"

"There's a fire on Overland Drive. Harvelle's Roadhouse. I think someone's trapped inside."

There was only a slight pause before the calm voice said back to him, "I'm sending help. Sir, can you provide me with your name and—."

Castiel hung up. He didn't have time for this. Dean didn't have time.

He didn't think. He just acted. He rushed up to the door and placed the back of his hand to the wood. It was warm to the touch, but not yet scorching. The metal handle, however, may be a different story. He put his hand into the pocket of his coat and used the fabric to turn the knob. The door clicked open, and he shouldered his way inside, having to heave from the hissing wind fanning the flames that caused a resistance.

All of his senses instantly went on red alert as the door slammed hard behind him, trapping him inside the bar. The fire alarm screamed in his ears, nearly making him dizzy with the sound. And it was hot. He felt as if he were submerging himself into boiling water, like a hot tub, and he kept waiting but the initial shock never wore off and his body didn't become accustomed to the heat. The air he breathed in was gritty and suffocating, rancid in his nostrils and causing his eyes to water. He blinked too rapidly, peering around in the blackened air for any sign of movement.

Outside, the fire hadn't seemed too bad. It was different inside. The flames whistled as they climbed up the backs of the chairs and danced on the bottoms of the tables. They warped the wood on top of the bar that Dean kept so meticulously pristine, and most of the bottles on the shelves behind it were shattered and dripping downwards, the fire jumping up every time the liquid hit it as it furled the paperwork and ledgers on the counter beneath. The pool table was billowing with large puffs and the flames licked up the blackened walls to ignite the photographs and posters hanging on the panels.

"Dean!" Castiel shouted, barely able to hear his own voice over the chaos. It caused some smoke to trap itself in his lungs, instantly turning his throat dry. He coughed it back up, but it was no use. It caused a burning sensation that he thought might cause permanent damage to his vocal chords.

He moved forward, stinging eyes wildly scanning the room and breath coming up in short pants as the fought for oxygen. Something loud like a gunshot erupted from one side, and he flinched before realizing it was the sound of bursting glass. A window must have shattered.

"Dean!"

He couldn't see anything now. The smoke was filling up the room, overcoming his sight and gagging him. The wooden door across the room leading upstairs was blazing with light.

Castiel reached back into his pocket and took out his phone, turning on the flashlight. He pointed it forward, hoping its silvery-blue light would find Dean. All it did was illuminate the soot swirling through the air.

He couldn't stop choking and coughing, and tried to remedy that by breathing into his elbow in hopes the fabric of his coat would filter out the smoke. It didn't work very well at all.

He kept shining the flashlight around, and began to think he'd been wrong. Maybe Dean wasn't there, after all. Maybe he'd gotten out.

His hopes were squashed when he moved the light towards the end of the bar, and he caught sight of a pair of jean-clad legs sticking out from around the side. The clunky boots were tipped to either side, unmoving.

Castiel's chest caved.

"Dean!"

He rushed for him, keeping his flashlight on to guide his way through the smoke. When he rounded the end of the bar, he found Dean slumped against it, head lolling to the side and skin covered in a layer of ash. There was a deep gash on his hairline that blood was dripping down from, a thick line of red trailing through the black. His eyes were open, a stark green radiating out from underneath the decay, and flickering from side to side. He winced slightly when the flashlight hit his face, but he didn't appear to be registering anything. He must have been concussed.

"Dean," Castiel choked out, throat closing with emotion, as he dropped down over him. He grabbed Dean's shoulder through his flannel shirt, holding on as tight as he could, partly for his own comfort and partly to shake Dean awake.

"Dean, can you hear me?"

Dean's eyes stilled momentarily, but they didn't attract to Castiel's gaze. He remained unresponsive, his lips parted slightly as if he were unconscious.

He was alive. But barely.

Castiel gritted his teeth, a flash fire in his chest burning brighter and hotter than the flames around him. He would kill whoever did this to Dean. He would kill Michael and Raphael and anyone else who tried to hurt him. He would never give them the chance to try it again. Because it was Dean— _Dean_.

More glass exploded as one of the frames on the wall fell and broke on the floor. It brought Castiel back to the moment, and he thought it might be hotter now. He could feel a layer of sweat dampening his hair, and he'd never been so aware of his own lungs.

"We have to move," he told Dean, even though he was fairly certain Dean couldn't hear him. He shifted his feet a little as he crouched, turning so that he could take Dean's wrist and pull his arm over his shoulders. He wrapped himself around Dean's torso and hauled him up by the ribs. Dean's legs kicked out in the movement, but he didn't do much to help pick himself up. Castiel nearly tipped over trying to support his weight as they stood, and he found his head was light and swimming.

Dean groaned and leaned against Castiel, his body going lax like he knew, instinctively, he was safe now. But Castiel wasn't so certain. He squinted as he peered around, desperately searching for an exit. He didn't think he could carry Dean to the front door in this condition. The back door behind the bar that led out to the parking lot was an option, but there wasn't a clear path to it. He'd have to walk them through a patch of fire eating at the floorboards to get there.

But it was the only way.

Readying himself, he readjusted his grip on Dean and pushed forward. Dean stumbled along in tandem, legs moving as if on their own accord, as wobbly as a toddler learning to stand. He kept slumping into Castiel, nearly causing them to lose their balance a couple times.

Castiel tried to stamp at the flames with his shoe, but he could feel the heat melting the sole. In the end, he had to go through it. He moved as quickly as he could, trying to leap over the worst of it as he tugged Dean along. He bit down hard as some of the flames connected with his pant leg, but it was nothing worse than accidentally touching the metal of a pot on the stove. It would leave a superficial burn for a while, but it went as quickly as it came, and Castiel was on the other side of the flames quickly enough.

Dean, however, let out a loud yell, and Castiel nearly dropped him in fright. He realized Dean's leg was still in the patch of flames, and his jeans were glowing bright as they caught fire.

He yanked Dean away, his back slamming hard against the wall next to the door in the process. Dean fell against him, totally dead weight now. Castiel needed to get him out, and he needed to put the flames on his leg out. He didn't know which was more urgent, but he quickly decided that Dean could live with a few burns. Because Castiel's vision was tunneling and his strength was failing him, and if he didn't get Dean out now, he knew they were both going to die there.

Hooking one hand around Dean's back and digging his fingers into Dean's shoulder to keep his grip, he shucked his other sleeve over his hand and went for the door handle to his right.

Even though the fabric, the knob was blistering, and Castiel shouted and pulled his hand away reflexively. The skin of his palm stung sensitively, but he knew he had to power through. Breathing in a few quick, steadying breaths, he reached out again and pulled the door open. He only managed to get it open a few inches until the heat caused a resistance, but he used his foot as a stopper to keep it from slamming closed again.

The air outside swept through the gap, chilled and fresh, and Castiel had almost forgotten that air could feel so clean. He inched closer along the wall, dragging Dean with him, until he could wedge himself into the gap. He turned his face towards the fresh air, gasping it in. It cleared his head marginally, and gave him enough strength to haul Dean through to the outside.

Once on the other side, the door fell closed with a rattling bang. Castiel paid it no mind. He caught sight of the Impala in the parking lot, her metal reflecting the fire, and made for it as best he could. He dragged Dean, legs limp against the cracked asphalt, away from the building. The embers burning a hole through his jeans were simmering out as they mixed with the gravel, leaving behind a patch of black and red blood oozing on the inflamed skin of Dean's shin.

The flames had broken through to the outside now, hissing as they raged through the windows and up the sides of the outer walls. The smoke was heavy, darkening the stars in patches, as it lifted up into the night sky.

When they were far enough away, Castiel laid Dean as quickly as he dared down on the ground and knelt down next to him. He cradled the back of Dean’s head as he lowered it, and Dean’s face dipped down so his temple rested on the tar. Despite the air, Castiel was finding it even harder to breathe. He reached out for Dean's face with shaking hands, but stopped just shy of cupping his cheeks. In the orange light causing dancing shadows behind him, he saw his skin was blackened with a thick layer of ash. It was caked onto his clothes and into his hair.

Dean's chest was rising and falling with shallow breaths that rattled hollowly out of him.

Castiel's ears were plugged, making everything sound like it was coming from behind a wall, but he eventually heard the sound of approaching sirens rising over the din. People were coming.

He had to get out of there.

He couldn't let anyone see him. Michael couldn't know that he knew the truth.

But he didn't want to move. He wanted to stay with Dean until he knew Dean was safe and awake and fine. He wanted to be there to hold Dean's hand and tell him that everything would be okay, as if he could make such promises. He wanted to be there when Dean woke up, so Castiel could see his eyes and kiss his smile.

But he had to go.

Shakily, he grabbed Dean's hand and twined their dirty fingers together. He brought it up and kissed his knuckles, smelling the smoke and iron and blood.

He wished he could make all Dean's pain go away. That he could kiss Dean's burns and wounds away, that he could repair the scar tissue in his lungs. That he could touch Dean and make him whole again.

He told himself there was nothing else he could do. The paramedics could help Dean far better than he could.

Reluctantly, he pulled himself away from Dean and rushed around the ruined building to his car on the street. He fell into the driver's seat and closed the door too lightly, causing the interior lights to stay on. He opened it again and slammed it shut harder than strictly necessary that time. He faced forward and gripped the steering wheel, allowing himself a few moments to regain control.

He forced himself to stop shaking, and took in deep bouts of fresh leather scented air to even out his breathing. He tried to focus on anything that would clear his mind—the grip of the wheel in his hand, his feet planted firmly on the mat of the car. He glanced at himself in the rearview mirror, and found his eyes were bloodshot. He barely recognized himself under all the filth covering his skin and the ash graying his hair. His own eyes stared back at him, piercing blue and almost sterile looking in comparison to the rest of his reflection.

He made himself be calm, and to not think of leaving Dean half-dead on the side of the road.

The sirens were growing louder, and he could see the flashing red and white lights circling along the tops of the vacant neighboring buildings as they approached.

He put the car into drive, and sped off in the opposite direction from the fire trucks.

///

The first thing Dean became aware of was something rustling to his right. Something was shifting, and he didn't so much hear it as feel it. It was a warm presence, safe, familiar, something so close to Dean's skin that it might as well have been a part of him.

He knew it was Sam before he knew anything else, and he allowed his brother's presence to pull him up slowly from whatever darkness surrounded him.

Gradually, other sensations ebbed into his consciousness. He could feel the softness of a bed beneath him, and the light weight of a blanket. He could feel his fingers twitching and he was aware of the tips of his toes. There was some kind of pressure on his pointer finger of his right hand, and it kind of felt like a chip bag clip had been closed over it. There was something light tickling his nostrils and cheeks, too, some alien thing that brushed down his neck. It made a hissing sound as it gently forced slightly chilled air up his nose, making him feel congested with a cold.

Sounds came next. They were distant at first, and he had the fleeting thought that he must have been scuba diving because every noise sounded like it was coming from above water. That would explain the oxygen pushing into his system. It didn't even occur to him that he didn't know how to scuba dive, and he never would because he hated going into the ocean.

There were footsteps and chatter coming from his left, approaching and then going away as whoever was making the noise walked by. There was something steadier, too—the rhythmic drone of two people having a conversation, and Dean realized a TV must be on low volume.

Then there was light. It was red and murky, and it shocked him for a second before it dawned on him that it wasn't blazing and flickering. His eyes were just closed, and the light fixture above him was seeping in behind his eyelids. But, in that split second of fear, a groan came up his scratched throat, and he winced.

He wanted to stay like this. He was warm and comfy and the world felt like it was floating. He didn't want to come crashing down.

And then he heard Sam's voice. "Dean?"

It was small, worried. Dean followed it.

Which was probably a mistake, because the pain came flooding in next. His head was pounding something fierce, every lobe lighting up and aching. His throat was cracked and sore no matter how many times he tried to swallow, which only made it worse. There was a pain in one of his legs that was simultaneously itchy and stinging.

He groaned again, this time louder, and it must have done the trick, because it was like he'd broken through to the surface of the water. Everything became clearer.

He blinked his eyes open, vision foggy at first, but he saw the blur that was Sam jump up from his chair and hover over him. Dean blinked a few more times until Sam's drawn, worried face came into focus. His hazel eyes were bruised with dark circles, his hair was limp, and his skin was dull; and, when Dean glanced at the table next to his bed, he saw at least five empty Styrofoam cups of coffee.

That was when the rest of the room came into view. The mint green walls and subdued inspirational posters, the clinical over-clean stench of it all. He was in the hospital.

Why the hell was he in the hospital?

And how the hell was he going to pay for it?

He wasn't able to figure it out, because Sam was leaning into his personal space and grinning from ear to ear. "Hey, man. Good to have you back with us."

"Sammy?" Dean croaked. It actually hurt to do. His throat suddenly felt like it was on fire.

Fire . . .

He tried to prop himself up on his elbows, and it was a little difficult just because he was so sluggish, and Sam's hand flew to his shoulder to help him along. "Take it easy."

Dean's eyes flashed around the room, but he wasn't really seeing anything. Instead, he was remembering. Closing up the bar. Ash heading upstairs, the creak of the wood under his feet. That guy—Alastair—showing up, his slimy, slithering voice. And what he was saying. Michael. Michael had sent him. Dean's temple throbbed with the phantom burst of pain when he remembered his head hitting the corner of the bar. And there was heat—lots of it. He couldn't breathe. Everything was going dark.

And then there was a light. It was silvery and blinding. There was a figure behind it, emerging from the smoke. It knew his name. He could still feel its fingers digging into his shoulder.

He didn't know who it was. Maybe Ash?

But that was it. He didn’t remember anything else.

"Harvelle's," he said, eyes wide with panic as they found Sam again.

Sam's lips thinned into a line, his eyes going soft. "It burned down."

Dean tried to breathe. Why was it so hard to do? There was an oxygen tube forcing air into him, and the plastic of it was getting tangled around him. He tried to breathe with it, but he couldn't. He tried sucking in air through his mouth instead, but all it did was hurt.

"Where's Ash?"

Sam brought his eyes down. "Dean," he whispered, shaking his head.

And suddenly Dean forgot about breathing altogether. He let his eyes slide closed, feeling numb. He should have made Ash stay downstairs with him.

"Dammit."

The thought occurred to him: if Ash hadn't pulled him out of the fire, who had?

"Dean," Sam said, not taking his eyes off of him as he reached behind him and felt around for the seat of his chair to sit back down. "What the hell happened?"

Dean shook his head. Where to even start? "I don't know. There was this guy. He came in. He—."

It finally dawned on him, really and truly, where he was. The hospital. Shit. "Is this Lawrence Memorial?"

Sam's brow collapsed in confusion, and Dean didn't need an answer. _Shit_.

"They know I'm here. They know I'm alive. Sam—." He tried to pick himself up again. They needed to leave.

"What? Dean, slow down." He held up his hands like he was trying to calm a wild animal. "Who knows?"

"The Novaks!"

They could hit their apartment next, maybe even Bobby's.

"Sam, the guy who started the fire—he said he was working for them. We gotta warn Bobby—."

"Bobby's alright," Sam said, somehow staying zen. It was annoying. "He's here, Dean. We've both been here all night. He just went to pick up some coffee that isn't from a vending machine."

Dean sighed, relieved. At least they were in the clear for now.

Sam shook his head thoughtfully. "Why would the Novaks want to burn down Harvelle's? I don't get it."

Dean shrugged and leaned back against his pillows. He was suddenly exhausted, all the energy draining out of him. He wanted to rip that damn oxygen tube off his face.

"Yeah, well, the hit man was chatty, but he wasn't that chatty. He didn't exactly give me a reason." He rubbed at his eyes. Damn, his leg itched. "Only question is, why aren't I dead?"

Sam didn't seem to have an answer, but he did appear to be considering something. "They found you passed out on the sidewalk. Did you get yourself out?"

Dean remembered the white light. The figure in the flames. At the time, he felt like all his unspoken prayers of survival were answered.

"No, someone got me out."

"Who?"

Dean shook his head, trying to picture a face. "I dunno."

Again, Sam seemed deep in thought. He opened his mouth, sucked in a breath to say something, and then decided against it.

"What?" Dean prompted.

Sam said, "No, nothing. It's just . . . do you think . . . Cas?"

Dean wanted to laugh. It came out as a choked kind of cough. "Why the hell would Cas save me from a fire?"

For a second, it looked like Sam wasn't going to tell him, like he was hiding something. And then he admitted, "He called me before the fire."

Dean blinked, taken aback. What the hell was he supposed to do with that? "He what?"

"Yeah, he was looking for you. He asked me where you were. And I . . ." He hung his head remorsefully. His voice dropped. "I told him."

Dean didn't want to consider it, but there it was in bright neon letters. "Son of a bitch probably told Michael where to find me."

Sam's neck snapped up. "You don't really think that?" He sounded unsure himself.

Dean looked down at his lap. His hands were drained of all color and the blanket was a weird shade of oatmeal. "I'm not putting anything past him."

Sam stayed quiet. Dean didn't know if he believed it, which was fair because Dean was struggling with the idea, too. But what else could it be?

There was a knock at the door, and both Winchesters turned their heads to find a nurse in scrubs standing there. She smiled as she walked in. "Glad to see you're awake, Mr. Winchester. How are we feeling?"

Dean shared a look with Sam. It was a loaded question.

"Fine." It was basically the truth, and even if it wasn't he could suck it up. He needed to get off Michael's radar as soon as possible. Everyone in that building worked for him. Hell, the nurse standing in front of them, picking up the clipboard with his information on it, could have been another hit man for all he knew. "Can I go home?"

She scanned the medical records, humming. "Well, looks like your vitals are good. There wasn't too much smoke inhalation. And your fluids are back up. Burns weren't that severe, but we'll have to keep medicating them with ointment for at least a week. But that's something you can do from home with a prescription."

Burns? That must have been the pain in his leg.

She lowered the clipboard. "I'd say you're good to be discharged. You got lucky. You must have some kind of angel watching over you."

Dean breathed, even though he didn’t feel very lucky. He'd half-expected a fight. "Great. Can you get this damn thing off my face now?"

She gave him a warm smile, and crossed to the side of the bed to help him with the oxygen tank’s cord.

As she worked, there was another knock at the door, and Dean glanced over to find Billie standing in the threshold. He tensed. He was kind of hoping he’d never have to see her again.

“Hey, Dean,” she said, striding into the room like she owned the place.

“Great,” Dean groaned, rolling his eyes. “Look, you wanna make it my funeral, get in line.”

“Actually, I’m trying to do the opposite. How’s that for irony?” she said. Now that the nurse was clear, Dean sat up a little bit, and Sam’s hand flew up instantly to aid him like he was some kind of invalid. “We’re looking for the guy who burned down Ellen Harvelle’s bar and killed Ash Miles. I’d like to ask you a few questions about last night.”

“Look, can we do this another time? He just woke up,” Sam asked her, his voice patient to the untrained ear. Dean heard the protectiveness undercutting it, and he was glad for it. He was way too tired to fight Billie himself, and he definitely didn’t want to answer any questions.

“Or we could just get it out of the way now.” Billie moved to the foot of the bed, her stare boring into Dean, unblinking, as she crossed her arms over his chest. The movement lifted up the ends of her jacket slightly, revealing more fully the badge on her belt.

"I figure maybe you'll give me some names now that your bosses tried to kill you," she said, sounding so sure.

"Sorry," Dean told her, voice still raw and throat dry. It felt like an animal was clawing its way up his windpipe. "Momma didn't raise no snitch." He cocked a sideways smirk off Billie's scowl.

He really didn't have a problem spilling names at this point. It's not like he wanted the job anymore. But all she'd be able to do, if anything, is get the low-level dealers like Crowley. And Crowley wasn't the one who'd put the hit out on him. The dude was a scumbag, but he didn't deserve to take the fall for attempted murder.

And he could sing all he wanted about the Novaks. It wouldn’t make a lick of difference.

"How'd you know it was the people he was working for that did this?" Sam asked. Maybe Dean's head was still full of smoke, but he hadn't caught that.

"Makes sense, doesn't it? Dean got himself arrested, almost exposed the whole operation,” she answered, raising a brow. "I don't know many crime bosses that would let that slide."

Maybe that did make sense. But why would Michael get him released from jail just to kill him? It seemed like a lot of extra steps for getting Dean out of the picture. And it's not like Dean was a threat, anyway.

His guess: Michael didn't like the fact that Dean couldn’t be bought.

"Look, I don't know who it was, okay?" Dean told her, suddenly overwhelmed with his exhaustion. The Novaks tended to do that to him. "I don't know anything."

Billie didn't seem to take that for an answer. "What about the guy who attacked you? Get a good look at him?" she pried.

Yeah, Dean got a few good looks—at his serpentine face, his leering and pointed smile, his fists. "He said his name was Alastair," Dean told her. "I saw him once before. He was at the garage I work at. Didn't stop in for a tune up. He was just sitting on the road out front."

God, Alastair had basically asked Dean where Harvelle's was. He waited until Dean was alone to strike and Dean had pretty much given him the time and place.

"You know what kinda car he was driving?"

Dean snorted. Of course, he knew. "A crappy old Ford Taurus."

"License plate?"

That was pushing their luck. Dean shook his head weakly. "No."

Billie nodded, seeming satisfied for now. "Thanks, Dean. Let's see if we can catch this asshole." She shifted her stance and reached into the pocket of her jacket to pull out a business card. "If you think of anything else, call me," she instructed, and Sam stood up to reach for the card.

"We will," he promised, sounding so damn earnest. It was better than sounding helpless, though. Dean was experiencing enough of that for the both of them.

Billie left pretty quickly after that, and Dean was about ready to do the same before some orderly with a concealed .45 came in and finished the job Alastair started.

"You got—?" he started.

"Yeah," Sam said, reaching down under the bed and pulling out a plastic bag filled with a change of clothes. Dean was glad he wouldn't have to change back into the clothes he was wearing at Harvelle's. They'd probably smell like a bonfire.

He sat up, grunting slightly, as it took way more effort than it should have. He was bone-tired, and his muscles dragged lethargically with every movement. He was able to get his first good look at his burnt leg and, despite what the nurse had said, it looked pretty bad to him. There was a big portion of skin that looked basically burned off, and it bubbled and bruised as angry red, yellow, and black scabs covered the majority of the area. There was a fine sheen over it that Dean assumed was ointment. He wasn't able to look at it for very long.

He threw his blankets off of him and kicked his legs off the side of the bed, and Sam jumped up behind him to help him. "I got it," Dean snipped, elbowing him away, even though he really wasn't sure that was true. He just didn't want to be treated like a baby, and he definitely didn't want Sam following him into the bathroom. He just needed to be alone for a second. He needed to process—or not process and bury it all down so he wouldn't lose it. He was already swallowing way too hard and way too frequently, and it was getting difficult to breathe.

Was he having a panic attack? He'd never had one before.

But one thing was for sure: he didn't want Sam to see it if he was.

The wounds on his burnt leg felt like they were stretching way too thin as he trudged towards the bathroom, like they might burst open and start oozing. His body felt heavy around him, and the bag of clothes hanging at his side was like a weight. He wanted to collapse, but placed his hand on the wall to guide himself as he walked. The tile floor was cold under his bare feet.

When he finally got to the bathroom, he closed the door behind him and locked it. He dropped the bag onto the floor and used the grab bars along the wall to support himself as he went over to the sink.

He turned on the water so Sam wouldn't hear the heavy breaths that rattled up from his chest, and he grasped the sides of the basin until his knuckles went white. He stared down at the sink as it filled up with water, blinking rapidly to steady himself. His heart was slamming against his chest so hard that it hurt. He didn't realize how thirsty he was, but leaning down to drink from the sink was too much effort right now. Besides, it would feel way too desperate.

He didn't want to feel that way. He told himself to stop it, to man up. He forced himself to glance up at himself in the mirror, made himself hold his own gaze. His eyes were bloodshot with burst capillaries, and there were black and blues on his pale, waxy skin. A deformed blob of a bruise was blooming on his jaw. He watched his Adam's apple bob, and then glanced up to his forehead, where a white bandage was taped to his forehead where he'd hit the corner of the bar.

He remembered the sharp pain, and the dizziness. He remembered the heat. He remembered someone calling his name. That white light.

He'd almost died. Ash _had_ died—and it was all his fault. And it was Michael's fault. And Dean wanted to get back at him for that. He wanted Michael dead. He didn't want to roll over and surrender, to give Michael what he wanted. He wanted to fight, but he didn't know how.

But he wanted to.

And, more than anything else, he wanted Cas. He wanted Cas to look him in the eyes and calm his fraying nerves. He wanted to go home, go to bed, curl up next to Cas and fall asleep to the sound of his heartbeat. He wanted to feel Cas' fingers brushing through his limp hair and dancing along his cuts and bruises like his touch could heal. He wanted to feel safe.

Dean screwed his eyes closed until his breathing evened out.

///

After Dean was discharged, Bobby drove him and Sam home and told them to call if they needed anything. Dean didn’t want him to go, worried that something might happen, but he figured Bobby was safe as long he stayed away. Bobby really should have taken Sam with him, and Dean would have suggested it if he thought he had a chance in hell at winning that argument. Sam would never leave his side, and Dean was actually kind of grateful for that. Even if he was putting Sam in danger, they could figure this whole mess out together. They were weaker when they were apart.

Dean was still pretty out of it, his leg killing him no matter how much of that ointment he put on it, and his eyes drooping every second; but he couldn’t fall asleep. He was too on edge, scared that if he closed his eyes for a second, Alastair would be back.

He camped out on the couch all afternoon, the TV tuned into an all day M*A*S*H marathon even though his mind was too preoccupied to pay much attention to what he was watching. Sam had put a throw blanket over him and set out a few bags of chips, some leftover meatloaf from their dinner a few nights ago, and a glass of water for Dean on the coffee table. He sat on the floor, back against the couch, and watched TV with Dean for a few hours before nodding off. He was still asleep, the sun having set hours ago, with his cheek pressed up against the couch cushion next to Dean’s blanketed feet.

Dean wanted to wake him up and tell him to go to bed. But, selfishly, he wanted Sam to stay, too. It was comforting having him there, and Dean didn’t want to let him out of his sight—not just for his own benefit, but because he’d convinced himself irrationally that some hit man was waiting at the back of the apartment to get the jump on Sam the second he went to bed. It was stupid, because the Novaks wanted him dead, not Sam; but Dean figured he’d rather be safe than sorry.

Around 9 PM, there was a knock on the door, and Dean's heart plummeted before kicking into high gear. But he was pretty sure an assassin wouldn’t ring the doorbell; and, besides, he knew that knock.

Sam started awake, blinking in the blue flickering light of the TV as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. Dean glanced at him briefly before returning his eyes to the door. The knock sounded again.

“’s that Bobby?” Sam asked groggily. He kicked his legs under him and hoisted himself up.

“Don’t answer it,” Dean said, trying to keep his voice down, but Sam was already trudging sleepily towards the door.

“What? C’mon, Dean.”

“Sam—!”

Too late. Sam was already unlocking the door and opening it. The dim yellow glow in the stairwell flooded into the room, painting a rectangle of light on the floor, and Cas stood in the doorway. Dean clenched his jaw. Cas was probably the last person he wanted to see right now, and the _only_ person. Dean hated the way his whole body relaxed whenever Cas was around, like coming home after a long day. He looked down at his lap.

“Cas?” he heard Sam say.

“Sam,” Cas responded. Dean felt it when Cas’ eyes moved to him. “Hello, Dean.”

Dean didn’t answer. He kept looking down at the plaid, fraying fabric of the blanket over his legs.

“May I come in?” Cas asked, and Sam let out an unsure sound. Sam didn’t really believe that Cas had anything to do with Harvelle’s burning down—and Dean didn’t want to believe it either—but they had to be suspicious. Cas was one of _them_. Hell, Dean didn’t like him being there now, because for all he knew, Cas could have been casing the joint to make sure they were home before sending Alastair in.

God, Dean _really_ didn’t want to believe that.

“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea,” Sam said apologetically.

Dean could imagine the hurt expression on Cas’ face. Those big, sad eyes. “I understand. I just . . . I wanted to make sure Dean was . . .” He dropped his voice, but Dean could still hear him. “How is he?”

Before Sam could answer, Dean barked out, “I’m _fine_.” He forced himself to look over the back of the couch to the doorway. “Question is, how’d you know what happened?”

Cas held his eyes, and even now, Dean didn’t know if these little staring contests of theirs was a competition or a comfort. They were always a little bit of both.

“We should talk,” Cas said without answering the question. He glanced over at Sam momentarily. “We should all talk.”

Sam glanced around, and they shared a look, both of them silently deciding to hear what Cas had to say. Sam held the door open wider and stepped aside, letting Cas in. Cas came into the living room, and hovered at the end of the couch, looking like he didn’t know where to sit. Dean pursed his lips and shimmed back to one end of the couch, ignoring the effort it took. Cas perched himself on the far cushion, careful not to make himself comfortable or make contact with Dean’s feet.

Sam locked and latched the door again, and then went into the kitchen to pull out a chair from the table. While he was gone, Cas gave Dean a pained kind of look, and asked, “How are you, really?”

“What do you care?”

“Dean—.”

Sam dragged the kitchen chair into the room and placed it in front of the coffee table close to Dean. As he sat down, he said, “Alright. Why don’t you tell us what’s going on—starting with how you knew someone was after Dean. I mean, that’s why you called me to find out where he was, right? You knew something bad was going to happen.”

Dean had considered that possibility, too, and he liked it a lot better than the _Cas was doing recon_ theory. But he didn’t want to get his hopes up.

“I didn’t know,” Cas said softly. “At least, I didn’t know it was going to happen last night.”

“So, you knew Michael had a hit out on me?” Dean accused.

“No!” Cas paused, seeming like he was trying to organize his thoughts. He sighed, his shoulders sagging as he did. “I went to visit my brother, Lucifer, in prison yesterday,” he said, and Dean really didn’t know what that had to do with anything.

“The one who stole all that money and ruined the town?” he asked.

Cas nodded. “Yes. I thought he might have information on the narcotics business Raphael—,” he scoffed a bitter laugh and corrected, “ _Michael_ is leading.” Dean wasn’t really shocked by that, but it looked like Cas was having a hard time with it. He tried not to feel bad, but it was hard because Cas looked so damn betrayed. “He said this had been going on for years, beginning with my father. According to Lucifer, he was trying to expose it to the town.”

“What?” Sam asked, not seeming to buy it. “Why?”

Cas shook his head. “It was more for his own benefit than the town’s, I assure you. He said he was embezzling the money to draw attention to Evangelist so that the police and . . .” He dropped his eyes to his palms folded upwards in his lap. “ _Reporters_ would dig into the company.”

Dean’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline, pulling at his bandage, a weird twisting feeling in his stomach. “Reporters?”

“Like our mom?” Sam asked, voice suddenly tense.

Cas didn’t look up. He nodded slightly. “Yes.”

There was silence then, filled only by the canned laugh track coming from the TV.

When Cas finally did raise his eyes again, they latched onto Dean’s, and they were full of shame. “Your mother had been looking into Evangelist, years before my brother was put in jail. Lucifer may have been giving her information, but—I don’t know. She could have just gotten too close to the truth.”

“And your family killed her for it,” Dean finished for him. He was having trouble breathing again, like smoke was filling up the room. But it wasn’t the fire from Harvelle’s. It was from that night—the night Mary died. He’d dreamt of smoke and flames long before last night.

Cas’ voice was barely audible when he said, “Yes.”

Dean wanted to throttle him—to make him know what it was like not to be able to breathe. To suffocate. “And they tried to kill me. They _did_ kill Ash!”

Cas shook his head again, his breath a little shaky as he inhaled. “I’m sorry. I—I didn’t know Ash was there. I—.”

“You _what_?”

“You were there last night,” Sam accused, voice somehow still calm, even though there were hints of anger in it.

Cas quickly explained, “Lucifer had mentioned a man named Alastair. He said he’d been the one who killed those people. I—I heard Michael on the phone with him weeks ago. I thought you were in danger. I—.”

He pressed his lips together, stopping himself before he said too much. But it was kind of a little late for that. Dean just wanted to hear him say it. “You what?”

“Dean,” Cas said. “I’m the one who pulled you from the fire.”

He knew what Cas was going to say, but he really didn’t know how he’d react to it. Turns out, it wasn’t pretty. He felt completely cold and devoid of anything but hatred. What, was Cas expecting him to be grateful? After everything that happened?

“Yeah, thanks for that,” Dean said, baring his teeth. “’Course, didn’t do much good for Ash. And now I gotta look over my shoulder every fucking second to make sure _your brother_ isn’t gunning for me. I told you not to trust them, Cas. I _told you_ they were bad news.”

“What was I supposed to do? Let you go to prison?” he shot back, and Dean _so_ wasn’t in the mood for that excuse anymore.

“Cut the shit, Cas! You were scared of them and you _let_ it get to this point!”

“Dean—,” Sam tried, but Dean ignored him and powered through.

“You knew something fishy was up from the jump and you let them keep going. You kept your mouth shut when you found out about the drugs, you _joined_ them when I got arrested. You let them kill Ash. Just like they killed Sam’s girlfriend and my mother and every other godforsaken person who got in their way.”

Cas was staring ahead at him unblinkingly, his eyes glistening and pleading in the blue light of the television. He didn’t look half as guilty as he should have. “Dean, I’m sorry. I was trying to do what was right—.”

“Not good enough.”

Cas closed his mouth again, his jaw moving infinitesimally like he was trying to keep himself from crying. Dean really didn’t feel sorry for him. He didn’t feel anything. He couldn’t even look at him.

“I want you out,” Dean told him point blank.

“Wait, hang on,” Sam tried again.

“Sammy,” Dean warned, not even turning to look at him. His eyes were fixed on Cas, who was frozen there like some kind of statue. Marble and cold and unchanging. Dean had been so stupid, thinking someone like that was even capable of love.

“No more trying to protect us, got it? We can take care of ourselves. We don’t want your help. We don’t want you here. So, just get out. If you knew what was best for you, you’d skip town now and get as far away from your brothers as you can.”

Even as he said it, his heart was breaking. The thought of never seeing Cas again was like a kick to the chest, but Dean had to endure it, even if he came back with a shattered rib and damaged heart. They were better off apart; that much was clear.

But Cas still wasn’t moving, and as much as Dean never wanted to see him again, he didn’t want him to leave, either.

“Go! Get the fuck out!” he yelled, so much that his throat burned, and it must have startled Cas back into the world, because he blinked at long last.

Dean watched him, breath short and eyes wide, and something in him hoping Cas would see this for what it really was. That Cas would stay, that he would stick with him despite this, because Dean still needed him. Dean still wanted him.

He was such an idiot.

Slowly, Cas stood up. He didn’t look at either of them when he said, “I understand. For what it’s worth, I _am_ sorry.”

Dean stayed quiet, angry and disappointed and wrecked because all love ever did was give him something to lose.

“Goodbye, Dean. Sam.”

He went for the door, and Sam made a few sounds like he didn’t know whether or not to call him back. Dean kept his eyes front, staring at the spot where Cas had been. He tried not to flinch when he heard the door open and close. He told himself it was for the best.

“Dean, what the hell?” Sam asked immediately, sounding pissed. He jumped up from his seat to tower over Dean. His arm was stretched out towards the door. “He was trying to _warn_ us! He wants to help!”

“I think he’s helped enough,” Dean maintained.

“He was left in the dark about all this, too, Dean!” Sam argued, and he was making sense. Dean knew he was right, but it didn’t matter. There had been warning signs that Cas _chose_ to ignore. Dean couldn’t let that slide.

“So, what?” Dean yelled back. “Get pissed, Sam! They killed mom. They’re the reason Jessica is dead!”

“ _I’m_ the reason she’s dead! I’m the one who bought those drugs from Ruby. I’m the one who let Jess take them!”

Dean hated that he still blamed himself for that. He shook his head. “Yeah, because of the _Novaks_.”

“But not Cas,” Sam reasoned.

But Dean didn’t want to hear reason. He wanted to stay mad. He wanted to stew in this anger until he could figure out a way to bring them all down with him. He couldn’t do that if Sam wore him down.

He pulled himself up from the couch, fighting through the aches and pains that flared up through his body. He needed to be alone. He needed to spend some time with Dad’s journal to look for any other clues now that some more light had been shed on the issue. Maybe all those names inside would make sense now. He wondered if John knew just how deep all this went.

“Dean!” Sam called after him. Dean just ignored him as he hobbled towards his room, cursing his bad leg. “ _Dean_!”

Dean slammed his door when he got inside his room and locked it behind him. He didn’t bother turning on the light before collapsing into bed, his leg throbbing and pulsing. He focused on staying mad. It was a little harder to do now that he was alone, in the dark and the quiet, where he could still smell smoke and feel the heat on his skin. Where he could still remember Mary tucking him into bed the night she died. Where he could hear the stairs creak as Ash walked up them. Where he could still see Cas’ hopeless eyes staring back at him.

He had to stay mad. Mad was good. If he let any other emotion in, he’d be done for.


	19. Chapter 19

Castiel had read the same sentence three times and he still wasn't certain what it was trying to convey. He wasn't even really reading it, but rather staring at the raised ink letters on the page of his textbook. The library around him was quiet, save for the occasional shuffling of feet as someone walked past or the stifled cough from the man three tables away.

He sighed, and tried to focus. It was no use. His mind was stuck on Dean, on Dean telling him to get out, to leave him alone, to never come back. Dean hated him and it was all Castiel's fault. He should have never told him the truth. He should have spared Dean the pain and kept him out of it. He should have dealt with this on his own.

He should still be dealing with it. But there he was—seeping in his own self-pity and reading about the Ansoff Matrix. Maybe he should just resign himself to his fate, like Michael wanted.

"Cas?"

Castiel started. He hadn't heard anyone approach, but when he brought his eyes up from his book, Sam was standing across the table, a tight smile on his face and his fist wrapped around the strap of his backpack. He looked unsure for a moment, and then he slid the bag off his shoulder, pulled out a chair, and sat down.

A rush of panic flooded through Castiel, and his eyes darted back and forth to make sure no one saw them. "Sam. You shouldn't be here."

"At my own school's library?" Sam tried to joke.

"You know what I mean. You shouldn't be with me."

"Why? Is there a sniper waiting in the wings?"

Castiel withered. "Neither of our brothers would like it."

To that, Sam's face went taught with compassion. His eyes were soft and pleading. "Just five minutes," he said. "That's all I need. Just hear me out."

Castiel wanted to say no, that it was better if they went their separate ways. Easier. He couldn't be reminded of Dean by Sam's presence; and, even if he could, it was impossible. Michael wouldn't stand for it, and now Castiel knew why. He was afraid. He feared the Winchesters would uncover the truth about what happened to their mother.

He needn't be. They were powerless. Castiel was powerless.

But, for some reason, Castiel let Sam stay. Perhaps it would hurt more when he inevitably walked away again, but it was a heartbreak Castiel was willing to suffer for just five more minutes of friendship with this boy. And five more minutes being as close to Dean's heart as he could get.

With a deep breath, Sam began, "Look, what happened to Mom—it was messed up, and it's not fair. And I wanna get back at the people responsible for it." His voice was low and genuine, and Castiel knew he had planned out what he wanted to say, but the fact of it didn't reflect in his tone. He gestured out with his upturned palm, indicating Castiel. "But that wasn't you. I mean, how could it be? You didn't know anything about it, right? It's not on you—any of it. You were just trying to help us, and I'm glad you did."

The sentiment was appreciated, even if Castiel wasn't convinced. He should have seen the signs. He'd sat through enough family meetings. How often had something done or said by his brothers not sat right with him? But he made excuses, turned a blind eye, told himself they were doing more good than bad. The thought of it now made him sick, and he found it impossible, no matter how he tried, to push that away and detach himself from the shame Sam was dredging up inside of him.

Or perhaps that was just Sam's general effect. Castiel always felt he could be himself around him, to feel his own emotions, and that he would be accepted.

He hoped that was still true, because, "Dean doesn't seem to share in your opinion."

Sam paused for a long time, opened his mouth to say something and then closed it again. He made a soft noise from deep within his throat, halfway to a thoughtful grunt. When he swept his gaze back up, Castiel knew that, whatever he was about to say, he hadn't planned on divulging it.

Knowing it was important, Castiel leaned in slightly, folded his arms on the table before him, and gave Sam his full attention.

"After Jessica died," Sam whispered, the sound of his voice barely reaching the ends of the table. Castiel felt as if they were in a bubble together. "I was messed up, man. I was angry— _ha_. I was pissed. I thought I didn't even deserve to be alive."

Castiel's eyes flickered down to the table in sympathy. He couldn't imagine losing Dean so permanently—but, then again, he had. He wondered if it was harder knowing the person he loved was still out there. "Sam—."

"I blamed myself," Sam continued. His voice sounded thick now, and his eyes were glistening. The wound was still fresh, and maybe it would never heal entirely. He sniffed, and his throat worked before he said, "And I think Dean blamed me, too, you know? For taking that stuff. For giving it to her. He said I was smarter than that, but I . . . He couldn't even look at me for a while."

He shuddered out a sigh, collecting himself. "But, when push came to . . . He pretty much talked me off a ledge."

Castiel didn't know what to say. He hadn't realized that part of Sam's life had gotten so bad.

"Point is," said Sam, "Dean stomps his feet a lot. But he doesn't give up on his family. And I still think you're family, Cas. And I think he thinks so, too." He pointed a finger at Castiel with more authority than Castiel had ever seen on him. "And so do you."

There wasn't a word for the dichotomy Castiel felt raging inside of him. It was love and belonging and anger and loneliness. It was awe and gratitude and dread and regret. It was haplessness. It was hope.

Sam was right. Of course, he was.

"So, don't give up on him, either."

Castiel couldn't speak. There was so much he wanted to say, but he couldn't marshal his thoughts into words. Even if he could, his lungs were constricting under the weight of emotion.

Somehow, he managed to eke out, "Thank you, Sam."

Sam gave him a gentle smile, one that said he'd understand no matter what Castiel decided to do, and then left.

///

Dean turned the page of his dad's journal.

His beer bottle, condensation dripping down the edges, sat a few inches away so the pages wouldn't get wet. More empty bottles were strewn out on the counters and piled in the recycling bin.

It'd been a long night. And morning. And afternoon. And three weeks.

Dean blinked down at the names in the journal. He’d looked them up online with fresh eyes, and he was practically convinced at this point that the Novaks had killed them all. There were people in town with the same last names—phone numbers in the yellow pages, Facebook accounts, addresses and familial relations divulged online on scam websites that made you pay to access the information.

He’d brought all this to Sam, and the two of them struggled with whether or not to tell these people what happened to their loved ones. It’s not like they had hard proof.

Because these people deserved to know. Maybe they wouldn’t want to, but they still deserved to know what really happened.

He wondered how his mom would have handled it. She probably would have gone to talk to the families, but what the hell would he say?

_"Hey, your loved one died horribly in a fire. Mine, too! Wanna help take down the all-powerful organization that did it?"_

He sucked at this.

In the end, he and Sam decided that they needed to get hard proof. He didn’t know how, or where, but he’d be damned if he let the Novaks get away with this.

From the living room, he heard the door creak open, and he sat a little taller to peer through the chef's window separating the rooms. Sam was home, an hour later than he said he'd be, and was hanging his jacket up on the hooks.

The world spun a little from the alcohol as Dean got to his feet, and a flare of pain that settled into a constant itch shot through his healing leg, but he quickly got a hold of himself and walked out of the kitchen. "'Bout time," he said, his voice sounding gruff even to him. It’d been doing that since the fire. "You shouldda called if you knew you were gonna be late, Sam. There’s a damn hit out on me. Maybe you, too.”

"I went to the library after class." Sam didn't look up at him as he said it. He placed one hand on the wall for balance as he toed off his shoes.

Dean rolled his eyes, about to call him a nerd, but the word died on his lips when Sam said, "I wanted to talk to Cas."

Dean froze. "Oh," was all he could say lamely, the beer delaying the effects of his anger. He got there eventually. "Wanna tell me why?"

Sam turned around to face him, expression already primed for an argument. Dean wanted to laugh. His brother didn't exactly look intimidating in his socks.

"Because we need his help," Sam said. "We can't do this alone. And he wants to help." He added, "And because you're being a jerk."

Dean scoffed. " _I'm_ being a jerk?" He looked to the side, as if asking an imaginary third party to back him up. "Right. Well, I'd rather be a jerk than dead! Or, worse, get you dead!"

Sam rolled his eyes. "Dude, it was _Cas_.”

"Exactly! He's a Novak, Sam! They tried to kill me. They did kill Mom—and Ash. They basically killed Jess."

Sam scoffed.

"He's one of them!"

"No, he's not!" Sam yelled back, matching Dean's tone. "And you know it! He's nothing like them.”

Dean had enough. He didn't want to talk about this. He didn't want to think about it, especially since they’d had this exact same conversation about a million times, and every time it made him feel like he had one of those heavy dentist x-ray aprons over his chest.

They were alone—simple as. Cas was gone and he wasn't coming back and Dean had never really had him to begin with.

"I was wrong!"

Sam settled. Apparently, he didn't want to fight anymore, and Dean hoped that was the end of it. This entire conversation had sobered him up way too quickly.

But Sam wasn't done. Figures.

"Dean," he said softly. "Come on, man. No, you weren't."

Dean rolled his eyes to combat the stinging pressure building in them. He turned to the side just in case any got through. For good measure, he ran his hand down his face, and pulled at his mouth. He was exhausted.

"Just—call him," Sam implored in that voice Dean never knew how to say no to. "Figure this out, Dean."

Dean shook his head, licked his lips. "Why? Why's it up to me?" he said, his voice more of a croak than he wanted it to be. He tried to psych himself up again, to get himself angry. The spark flickered and sputtered but didn't fully ignite.

Sam pressed his lips together, internally debating whether or not to say what was on his mind. Part of Dean wanted him to keep it to himself, and the other part wanted him to spit it out.

"Because I've never seen you like this about anyone before."

Sam should have shut his mouth, because the match inside of Dean's chest blazed again, setting off a wildfire. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"I think you do."

Shit, he was relentless.

Dean turned around fully and walked towards the hall. He had to lock himself in his room before he started throwing punches. "Drop it, Sam."

"You don't just love him, do you? It's more than that," Sam called after him in a rush.

Dean stopped short as if he'd run into a wall. He didn't want to, but he couldn't help it. He just stopped—all of him. His feet were stuck to the floor, his arms hung limply at his sides, his eyes stared blankly ahead. It was like his body just gave out on him.

"He's it, isn’t he? The one, or whatever you wanna call it. Right?" Sam's tone was slow, coaxing, soothing. Dean still hadn't turned around, but he could picture Sam—his head dipped as if to catch Dean's eyes, taking a tentative step forward before thinking better of it. He'd be treading so carefully.

"I mean, who knows, maybe you won't actually end up with him—."

Dean swallowed hard. He couldn't picture ending up with anyone else. Only Cas, he realized ruefully. It wouldn't be right with anyone else. He'd rather be alone, he thought, resigned.

Even now, part of him always thought he and Cas would end up together when everything was said and done. That Cas would come back to him.

"Maybe there'll be others, sure," Sam went on, garnering confidence from Dean's silence. "But not like him. I know what that looks like because that’s what I felt for Jess. And I'm begging you, Dean, please, don't let that go. 'Cause, if you do . . ."

He let himself trail off, obviously not having words for the regret that came from letting something like that go so easily. But Dean got the message.

He felt hollow, like someone had scooped out the contents of his chest and sewed him shut again, leaving him empty. It was misery, and it made all the anger drain out of him until he was numb to the very tips of his fingers.

But maybe he was a masochist. Maybe that was the only way he'd ever be happy. Because the voice in the back of his head told him to bury himself deep, to lock himself away and never let anyone find him. Never give himself over like that again, especially to Cas, because it would never work out in the end. They were always headed towards complete failure, weren't they? They were stupid to even try.

He might as well cut his loses.

Or he could fight. Because it was Cas. There was nothing else to it—no logic or reason or hope. Just Cas. Just everything he wanted.

He didn't know what to do.

But he could feel his body again, just the slightest itch in his legs, and he forced them forward. He didn't stop until he was in his room and the door was locked behind him.

///

Sam’s words had been ringing in his ears all night, and maybe this was a stupid idea. Maybe Sam had no idea what he was talking about. And maybe Dean was going to regret this.

But they did need help, and maybe Cas was willing to play ball.

Or maybe not.

Dean got Cas’ new number from Sam, and sent him a text telling him to meet at the Benny’s over two hours ago, and he still hadn’t shown up. He’d been on his third cup of coffee when Andrea finally told him to order something or give up the booth. He opted for his usual—pancakes with extra bacon—and paused before deciding not to bother ordering Cas’ cheese and tomato omelet with a grapefruit juice and a coffee. Although, as it turned out, not ordering it was just as bad as watching it go cold would have been. As he munched on his bacon, he tried not to stare blankly at the seat across from him, tried not to imagine Cas pouring a bucket load of sugar into his coffee as clearly as if he’d been sitting in front of him.

This was stupid.

Cas obviously wasn’t coming. He was probably having second thoughts about this whole thing, and decided that it was better to protect his family’s secrets.

But then, over the chatter of the customers, Dean heard the bell over the front door tinkle. Cas, hair sticking up in every angle and in a t-shirt and jeans rather than his usual button up and pressed pants, walked through. A dusting of the light snow coming down outside was melting into his hair. He immediately looked towards Dean, sitting at _their_ booth, and squeezed past the customers currently headed out of the restaurant. He slid into the booth, and Dean saw his face was still lined from the pillow. His eyes were red, making the blue of his irises stand out even more, like he hadn’t gotten much sleep.

“’Bout time,” Dean huffed. “Thought you stood me up.”

“Apologies,” Cas told him, voice as flat and robotic as Dean had ever heard it. “I slept through my alarm this morning. I only received your message twenty minutes ago. I got here as soon as I could.”

Something wrapped itself around Dean’s heart and squeezed, all the memories of Cas waking up late and rushing to get dressed in a whirlwind flashed before his eyes. He shoved it down and muttered, “Figures.”

“What did you want—?”

Andrea came by at that moment, pen and notepad ready in hand. “Castiel, good to see you again. Anything I can get you?”

Cas blinked at her, and then blinked unsurely at Dean. Dean sat back and flapped his hand, letting Cas know he wasn’t in a rush. But apparently Cas was, because he said, “Just a coffee. Thank you, Andrea. It’s nice to see you, as well.”

Dean tried to distract himself by picking up the ketchup bottle and twirling it back and forth before remembering an article he read saying the condiment bottles are always the germiest things in a restaurant.

“What did you want to talk about?” Cas asked when Andrea left.

Dean looked up, and wiped his hand on the front of his jacket. “What you told me and Sam. About your family,” he said, getting straight to it. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, and ran his hands through his hair. Cas waited patiently.

“Look, Cas,” he started, having to swallow to unclog his throat. His pulse was pounding in his ears and he suddenly felt weak. His entire body was trying to stop him from what he was about to say. He combated it by folding his hands together on the table, lacing his fingers, and squeezing hard.

Trying again, he said, “I know we’ve been through some shit. And everything with—with my mom, and everybody else . . . I know you had nothing to do with that. But—.” He forced himself to meet Cas’ eyes, trying to make a point. “Every time I look at you, I’m reminded of what happened to her. And I don’t know if I can ever get past that. I just—I don’t know, Cas.”

He expected Cas to react—in some way, any way, at all. He only continued to stare. Dean looked for the usual signs of Cas controlling his features, but he couldn’t see any. It was just a blank stare.

After a pause, Cas said levelly, “I understand.”

 _Fuckin’ robot_.

Dean was squeezing his hands so tightly they were turning red. Once he noticed that, he sat back again and rested them on his lap. “Uh, okay, then—.”

Andrea came back and placed Cas’ coffee in front of him. “Thank you,” he told her as she walked away, and then immediately reached for the sugar dispenser. Dean watched him empty about a fifth of it into his drink, listened to the clacking of his spoon against the glass cup as he stirred it.

“Continue,” Cas told him, knocking Dean back into reality.

“Anyway, like I was saying,” Dean said after clearing his throat. He tried to get back on track, and to leave the emotional side out of it. Cas clearly wasn’t interested in that, anyway. “Me and Sam, we’re game to take down the bastards that did this to our family.”

“By ‘the bastards,’ you mean _my_ family?” Cas took a long sip of his coffee, not breaking eye contact.

“Yeah,” Dean clarified, suddenly worried that Cas really _had_ changed his mind.

“Good. So do I.”

That was a relief.

“We just wanna set the record straight. The town deserves to know what’s up.”

Cas nodded, finally a little bit of emotion slipping into his expression. “I want what’s best for the town, Dean. I want to help.”

Dean softened, almost ached. _That_ was the Cas he knew. “I know.”

As quickly as it had come, the emotion was gone. Cas schooled his features again and sat up straight. “So, what’s the plan?”

The plan? Good question. They hadn’t gotten that far.

“I was thinking Billie?” Dean said aloud for the first time. “She’s been looking to bring down your family for a long time. She could help.”

Cas pondered it for a moment, biting on his lip. “Maybe,” he said thoughtfully. “But we don’t have very much evidence right now. And everything we do have is our word against theirs. My brothers have connections with the police force. If we go to Billie too soon, without anything conclusive, it could be a mistake.”

Dean hadn’t really thought it through. He deflated. “Well, I’m open to any bright ideas, Columbo.”

Cas nodded, and Dean could see his mind turning behind his eyes. He opened his mouth tentatively, and said, “Maybe we could convince the court of public opinion before the court of law.”

“The court of who?” Dean asked, pulling a face.

“The town,” Cas answered. “If we could get damning evidence against Michael and show it to the townspeople, it could turn the public against Evangelist. Protests would lead to inquiries, and then to more substantial evidence.”

It seemed like a good enough idea but, “Okay, what _damning evidence_ are you thinking?”

Cas worked his jaw from side to side. “I don’t know. Maybe we need someone on the inside.”

Okay, maybe it wasn’t a good idea after all.

Dean snorted. “Like you?”

“No, not me. I’m not supposed to know anything about this. It has to be someone else. Like Crowley—or Azazel.”

Okay, so it was a terrible plan.

“Azazel?” Dean asked, his eyebrows shooting up to his hairline. Did he really have to spell this out like Cas was a six year old? “As in drug lord Azazel? _That_ Azazel?”

“Meg’s father, yes. She can get information from him without him suspecting a thing.”

Meg. Of course. Dean should have known.

“No. No way. You know she’s in on it, right?”

Cas barely even blinked. “I assumed as much.”

“And?” Dean said, brows popping. “You think she’ll want in on this?”

“We can use her position to our advantage. Her father trusts her.”

Dean felt his temper surge hot and bright, like a flash of lightning. He chose to believe it was anger instead of jealousy, but either way he was pissed off. “Yeah, but _we_ can’t trust her! C’mon, man, you know that bitch’ll double-cross us the second she has the chance.”

“Maybe not,” Cas maintained. “I can convince her.”

“ _How_?”

Cas sat back, again stared neutrally at Dean. “She still has certain . . . feelings for me,” he said matter-of-factly.

A choked sound forced his way up Dean’s throat, and he had to look away.

As if this whole situation wasn’t bad enough.

“Do you take issue with that?” Cas asked, almost challenging.

“Issue? Nope. No. Me?” Dean answered in a kneejerk reaction. He forced a toothy smile to his face, but even outside of the warped reflection in the napkin holder, it appeared twisted. “Why would I?”

Cas paused for a long time, and Dean was sure he was reading him like a damn book.

“I just don’t think we should drag her into this until we have more of a plan,” Dean excused. “We should talk to Sam, see what his ideas are. Maybe Charlie’ll wanna help.” She definitely would. She’d jump at any chance to bring down Evangelist.

Cas nodded, seeming to agree. Maybe Dean could stall working with Meg indefinitely. He couldn’t trust her as far as he could throw her, even if Cas may have.

“Dean,” Cas said, recapturing his attention. “You do realize we could be responsible for ruining Lawrence if we do this?”

Dean bit down on his jaw. Evangelist controlled the town. They kept the money flowing, businesses open. People could lose their jobs, their homes. It’d be worse than the recession Lucifer caused. It might devastate the town.

But if anyone else died because of the Novaks, that would be on Dean. He had to do something. The town could rebuild somehow. Hopefully.

No matter what he picked, it would keep him up at night.

“Yeah, I know,” he gritted out. He hated thinking about it. He brought his own coffee to his mouth, shaking his head into it. “Kinda a rock and a hard place, huh?”

“Yes,” Cas agreed, and Dean considered the fact that Cas would lose everything, too. He had just as much at stake as anyone else in the town.

“And you’re cool with that?” Dean asked.

“I can’t allow that to be my focus.”

He said it like it was nothing at all. Like it was easy. Like toying with people’s lives was excusable. Like it wasn’t his problem. Dean couldn’t believe what he was hearing. God, had Cas always been this way? He couldn’t quite reconcile this Cas with the one he knew.

Maybe he was more like his family than he thought.

The thought made Dean laugh, but only a little, and bitterly. “You’re one cold-hearted son of a bitch, you know that?”

Again, Cas didn’t say anything for a long time. But when he did speak, he said, “Let me know when you and Sam are ready to move forward.”

Dean did his best to push all thoughts of Cas aside and focus on the task at hand. He nodded.

“I’ll contact you when I can meet next,” Cas told him, like their relationship was strictly professional. He drained the rest of his coffee, leaving a brown clump of wet crystallized sugar on the bottom of the cup, stood up, and pressed a crisp twenty-dollar bill onto the table. Dean felt his fists clench again, and his jaw started to ache with how much he was straining it.

He looked up at Cas quickly, unable to keep the resentment from his gaze, and maybe he didn’t want to. It must have had more of an impact than he’d imagined, because Cas’ expression softened into something sad, and his lips parted slightly in something akin to shock. But it was only for a brief flash, and then his face was schooled once more.

“Goodbye, Dean,” he said, voice thick, and quickly left the diner.

Dean watched him disappear out the door.

“Yeah. Later, Cas.”

///

Later that week, Dean got a text from Cas telling him he could meet up that night to "discuss next steps." Dean nearly gagged at the phrasing; it made him feel like he should put on a suit and tie and sit at a conference table. It didn't help when Cas showed up in that very get-up, giving some excuse about sitting in on an earnings call that day or whatever. Dean tried not to feel too self-conscious in his faded jeans and t-shirt with a hole in the hem around the neck.

"Hey, Cas," Sam said, standing up as Dean led Cas towards the sofa. Cas hadn't bothered to take off his coat, which meant he probably wasn't staying long. Dean pretended he hadn't cooked an extra helping of pasta earlier just in case Cas was hungry when he stopped by. If Cas wasn't staying, Dean wouldn't offer.

"Hello, Sam," Cas said, not quite returning Sam's smile, but there was a warmth in his tone as he glanced Sam over, like they hadn't seen each other in a while.

Sam gestured towards the space next to him on the couch. "You wanna sit? I think we have some leftovers in the fridge if you didn't eat yet—."

Damn it, Sam.

"I'm alright," Cas said, sitting down, and Dean told himself not to feel slighted by that. "Thank you."

"Great. So why don't we brass this tax so we can all go back to our lives," Dean cut in harshly. He'd been going for nonchalance, but it probably sounded more like frustration, which was annoying. Because he really didn't want Cas to know that just having him sitting on his couch, where they spent so many nights curled up watching movies, was making him want to claw his heart out of his chest with how much it hurt.

"Um. Yes," Cas agreed, watching as Dean sat cross-legged on the floor on the other side of the coffee table like it was the most fascinating thing he'd ever seen. Dean kept his head down, but he was still aware of the fact that Cas hadn't stopped staring at him since the second he walked in. Even when he was talking to Sam, he was still always half-looking at Dean.

"I've been working more closely with Michael recently, usually in his meetings. I've paid attention to his schedule over the last week to find any patterns in the appointments I don't attend."

"And?" Dean asked, popping his brows.

Cas thinned his lips into a line, and Dean already knew his answer before he said it, which only made him question why the hell Cas had brought it up in the first place. "None that I could determine. But he did meet with Raphael yesterday morning while I was in class. He also paid a visit to the hospital's pharmacy, but I'm not certain if Azazel was present."

"So, what? He's not running the drug ring through the company?" Dean asked, trying to decipher the meaning.

"No, he'd have to," Sam interjected. "Right? I mean, how else could he hide all that money without a front?"

"What, like the _Sopranos_?"

Cas blinked at him, his mouth falling agape like he didn't know whether or not to agree. Dean realized they'd never gotten around to binging that particular show.

"Anyway," Sam cut in, "I think the hardest part of this is gonna be linking it all back to Evangelist. Seems to me like they've gone through a lot of trouble covering their tracks." He ran his hand through his hair and blew out his cheeks. "We're gonna need something big—something that they can't back out of."

"Like what?" Dean asked.

Sam shrugged. "I dunno. Cas, any ideas?"

Cas searched his lap in thought, pouting a little as he tried to dredge something up. Dean's fingers twitched with the want to reach over and pinch Cas' lips, like he used to do sometimes when Cas made that face. He shuffled, and sat on his hands to prevent himself.

"I haven't seen anything," Cas said at last. "Unless Raphael has it, but he tends to reschedule every time I'm supposed to shadow him. I don't have access to his office."

"Why does he reschedule? You think he's hiding something?" Sam asked, and Dean snorted.

"Oh, he's definitely hiding something," he said, but he knew that wasn't the main reason Raphael kept avoiding quality time with Cas. There was always friction between the two of them, probably more than any other of Cas' siblings. According to Cas, their "personalities clashed" even when they were young.

"Perhaps a confession," Cas offered.

Dean snorted for a second time. "Yeah, good luck with that."

Cas' eyes slid fully back to him, nonplussed and dull as he stared. "It wouldn't be outright," he explained after a full minute in which Dean felt like he'd just been regarded as the biggest idiot who ever lived. "I believe I've gained Micahel’s trust. If I can get him and Raphael to tell me about the drugs—."

"And what? You think they're just gonna sit you down and say, hey, no big deal, our family kills people who get in our way?"

Cas gave a forceful roll of his eyes. "Of course not. But I could get _something_. It might be enough. I could obtain it in secret."

Sam shook his head. "I dunno, man. Even if you could, a recorded confession without consent would get thrown out in court."

"But it might be enough to convince the town," Cas pointed out, brows popping as he looked between Dean and Sam. "That is our main objective here, isn't it?"

Dean had to admit, Cas had a point, but he didn't like it. If Cas got caught, all this would be over before it even started. And he just didn't see a world where Michael or Raphael sat Cas down and came clean. That could be months down the road—years. Cas wasn't even a full employee yet. There was no telling when he'd be let in on the family secret, if he ever were.

Sam seemed to have some reservations, too, because he was nodding in that way he did when he didn't want to completely dismiss an idea in case it hurt someone's feelings, but he still didn't want to go through with it. "Yeah, it is," he allowed, his tone matching his expression. "But maybe we should try to get something more concrete first. Like a document, or—or—or—you told Dean Meg's dad kept a ledger, right? Maybe one of your brothers has something like that?"

Cas sighed, but dipped his head in a curt nod. "Yes. Maybe. As I said, I can't rely on getting into Raphael's office, but I may be able to search Michael's."

Dean perked up a little. "Great, I'll come with."

Cas seemed to jump a little at that. "No—Dean. It'll be hard enough finding a reason to be in Michael's office without him. Getting you there, too, will be more trouble than it's worth. Besides, you don't know what you're looking for."

Dean shrugged, because those details didn't matter. "So? Two sets of eyes are better than one, right? We can be in and out quicker if we both look."

Cas bared his teeth, and practically growled, "Dean—."

"Yeah, Cas, no offense, but last time you found something like this, you didn't exactly share with the class," Dean butt in, not caring how harsh it sounded. "We're all in this together now, so I'm coming. That's final."

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw Sam look down at the floor, no doubt biting his tongue on whatever he wanted to say. But Dean was too busy challenging Cas' glower.

Eventually, Sam cleared his throat into his fist, like he was trying to remind them that he was still there.

Cas bristled. "Fine."

Dean leaned back, forcing a grin. "Fine."

"But I know Evangelist, and you don't. I'll plan our strategy, and you will adhere to it. Agreed?"

Dean titled his head to the side in a half-nod. "You're the boss."

"Good." Cas stood up. "Sunday after our family meeting may be the best time. The office is mostly empty then, which means fewer eyes. There's a fire staircase nearby Michael's office that leads outside to an alley, which you may be able to slip into. I'll test that theory and text you the plan once I know."

Dean pursed out his lips and shrugged to show he was okay with that.

Cas regarded him for another long moment before saying, "I should go." And Dean didn't know if that was because he didn't want to be missing for long, or if he couldn't stand to be in the same room as Dean anymore.

"Yeah. Yeah, okay, Cas," Sam said, looking up at him and offering a low-wattage closed-mouth smile. "Good seeing you again."

Cas' expression softened as he met Sam's eyes, and he nodded once. Then, he turned his head back to Dean, gaze flickering up and down in a way that made Dean's skin prickle. He tried to blame that on his metaphorical hackles going up, but deep down he knew that wasn't true.

When Cas left, it was simultaneously a little easier and a little harder to breathe.

///

When Sunday rolled around, Castiel made sure to get to the church early, before the previous service had even let out. He parked at the far end of the lot near the rectory, under the cover of the trees, so that his siblings wouldn’t see his car when they arrived.

Michael got there first. It was fifteen minutes until the 10 AM mass began, and the last of the 8:30 AM congregation was waving goodbye to Father Jim before driving out to the road in a single file line. Michael and Father Jim spoke momentarily in the courtyard outside the church before going inside together. Castiel watched as more cars and the familiar faces of the churchgoers arrived.

Uriel came next, and then Raphael. They both promptly went into the building.

When he saw Anael’s car pull in, he unbuckled his seatbelt and got out of the Lexus Michael had given him months ago. He tried to ignore the nerves bundling together in his lower stomach as he strode across the parking lot, reaching her just in time for her to finish putting on her lipstick in her vanity mirror. He knocked on her window, and she jumped a little in fright before realizing it was him.

“Castiel?” she asked, her voice muffled by the glass, squinting at him as if he were the last person she’d expected to see during the mass they attend every Sunday.

He stepped backwards to allow her to get out of her car.

“You wanna tell me why you’re sneaking up on me like that?” she accused.

He decided to cut to the chase, mostly because he would chicken out if he delayed this any longer. And he couldn’t do that. He was fairly certain that Anael didn’t know the truth about their family, but he couldn’t be sure. Still, she was his best bet.

“Anael, I need your help.”

She paused, and then let out an amused scoff of laughter. “ _Oh-kay_ , what did you do this time?”

He clicked his tongue, trying not to take offense to the fact that she’d just assumed he’d messed something up. Perhaps she had enough reason to jump to that conclusion, but it would be nice if she’d kept it to herself. “Nothing. I . . .”

He’d planned out what he’d wanted to say, but he’d forgotten the script suddenly. Deciding to move forward anyway, he said, “After the family meeting today, I need you to get Michael out of his office.”

She raised a brow, and folded her arms over her chest. Her expression turned suspicious and slightly amused. “Uh-huh. Why do you need me to do that again?”

Of course, she’d ask why. Anyone would ask why. Still, he’d been hoping she wouldn’t.

“I need you to distract him.”

“Distract him?”

“Yes.”

She scoffed, and the waves in her hair bounced as she shook her head. “Why the hell do I need to distract him?”

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Couldn’t he just ask something of his sister without pushback? “Please, Anael. Trust me.”

Her answer was immediate: “Sorry, Castiel. Not until you tell me what’s going on.”

Another car drove by, the rush of its wheels catching Castiel’s attention. The parking lot was filling up, which meant the mass would start in a few minutes. Over in the courtyard, the ushers were welcoming the congregation with smiles and handshakes.

He had to move this along.

He had to tell her the truth. She would be able to sniff it out if he lied, but perhaps he could keep it vague. He said, “I need to get something from his office.”

Confused, she asked, “Why don’t you just ask him for it? You’re like—his protégé now, right?”

The church bells began to ring. His blood began pumping quickly, and he remembered why, exactly, he’d chosen Anael to help him, apart from her probable ignorance of the truth. Because she was easily bought. “Help me, and I’ll give you my car.”

It was the only thing of value he had to offer her.

“I don’t want your car. I have a car.” She gestured behind her.

He withered. Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe they needed to find another way of getting into Michael’s office. But Anael was suspicious now, and she wouldn’t just drop it. “Then, what do you want?”

She gave a small laugh. “Mostly, to know why you’re being so sketchy. What do you need from Michael’s office that’s so secret?”

He opened his mouth, willing a lie to come forward. Nothing did.

Anael rolled her eyes and threw out her hands. “Fine. Don’t tell me. Good luck finding it,” she said, and started walking in the direction of the church.

He didn’t have a choice.

“It’s for Dean Winchester.”

She stopped, and then turned around. Her expression was utterly perplexed. “The guy from the Christmas party?”

He thinned his lips, and nodded.

“Didn’t you two have a falling out or something?”

He swallowed, not knowing how to navigate this situation. “Yes. But . . . we’re—.” He didn’t want to say they were fine now. That would be a lie. They were very much not fine. He dropped his head, and whispered, “I can change that. If I do this, I can—.” He didn’t even know if that were true or if he was just being too hopeful. “Anael, please help me.”

She was giving him a strange kind of look now, assessing and calculating. She took a few steps closer and said, “That Meg girl? You were never actually dating her, were you?”

He tilted his head to the side, eyes pleading with her as he said, “Well, technically, I did. But not for a while.”

“So, you _are_ gay?” She didn’t seem surprised.

He couldn’t tell whether her tone was judgmental or not. He sighed heavily. There was no use denying it now. “I don’t—,” he bit his bottom lip, and shook his head. “Maybe. I just—Dean. I’ve never wanted to be with anyone before him. Or since.”

It felt strange to admit in the shadow of a church, its cross on the top of the building glinting in the sunlight. It also felt like a relief, in a way. He realized he didn’t really care if she knew. It didn’t matter what she thought of him. All that mattered was her cooperation.

“Will you help me or not?”

The ushers were closing the doors of the church. Mass was beginning. Castiel didn’t really care if he was late anymore.

She pursed her lips, her eyes scanning him thoughtfully. Finally, she said, “Well, I guess your car _is_ nicer than mine. And newer.”

He let out a breath of relief. “Thank you, Anael.”

She nodded, and he thought that was that. But then she said, “And you know I don’t care, right? If you’re gay? Michael and Raphael might, but whatever. It’s really none of my business what you do.”

He didn’t know what to say to that. He just nodded. If she were giving him her approval, it wasn’t necessary.

“But, Castiel?” she went on. “If you’re risking your future for this Dean Winchester guy because you think it’ll make him want to be with you—maybe rethink that. Because love? If our parents taught me anything, it’s that love isn’t real. You just have to look out for number one.”

He furrowed his brow, not understanding how anyone could think like that. “But—you have a boyfriend?”

She let out a bark of laughter. “Yeah, and we have a good time, but that’s it. I don’t _love_ him. Putting yourself out there like that isn’t worth it. It’s better to be alone than fuck up your life for someone else.”

He _really_ didn’t know what to say to that. He supposed he felt sorry for her. He wondered if the other members of his family felt the same way. And maybe he had, too—once, without even knowing it. It was lonely.

“You’re wrong,” he told her. “Ever since I met Sam and Dean, my life has gotten better. I’ve gotten better. They’re . . .” They were his family. Dean had tried to tell him that once. He didn’t realize he’d been right until that moment. “I would do anything for them.”

She looked at him as if he were the pitiable one. “Maybe that’s the problem.”

“Maybe,” he allowed. “But it’s a problem I’d rather have.”

She considered it for a moment, and then turned away. “We better get inside before Michael blows a gasket,” she said lightly, as if their previous conversation had been erased. She looped his arm into his, and they started towards the church together. “After the meeting, just keep him talking until I give you the signal, okay? I’ll handle the rest.”

He knitted his brow together, and looked down at her. “What’s the signal?”

She laughed, and flipped her hair over her shoulder. “Trust me, baby brother. You’ll know it.”

Before he could inquire further, she opened the doors, and the music from the choir silenced them.

Castiel spent the entire mass and subsequent meeting trying to remain as calm as possible on the surface. He kept his hands folded on his lap and his posture straight, and prayed his nerves weren't showing on his expression. There were so many things that could go wrong. Anael's diversion could fail, Dean could be late or unable to get into the building—or worse, spotted. And much of their plan was contingent on actually finding evidence in Michael's office, which wasn't exceedingly likely.

After the meeting, everyone began filing out of Michael's office, and Michael remained behind his desk. As she passed, Anael shot Castiel a slight grin, and he wondered if that was the signal; but then nothing happened. She just walked out of the office like everyone else, and the knot that had grown in his stomach tightened even more.

He would feel better if he knew what she was planning.

"Castiel, is there something I can help you with?" Michael asked without glancing up from his computer screen. The door to the office was closed now, and Castiel was alone with his brother. Anael had told him to keep him talking, so perhaps her plan wasn't yet in motion. He hoped it came to fruition soon. The longer Dean remained hovering in the stairwell—if he'd even managed to get there—the more of a chance he had of being seen.

"Yes," Castiel said, turning fully to face Michael. "I, um, have a paper due in one of my classes discussing management ethics. I was hoping you might be able to provide me with some real life examples to incorporate."

It wasn't an outright lie. He did have a paper due on the subject. He'd just already completed it and submitted it two weeks ago.

Michael leaned back, letting his chair rock a little, looking pleased. "I'd be happy to." He gestured towards one of the chairs in front of his desk. "What point are you arguing?"

To stall, Castiel didn't say anything until he was fully seated in the chair. "Well—."

Luckily, he didn't have to go further. There was a knock on the door, and Michael's eyes flickered across the room. Castiel looked over his shoulder in time to see Anael's head pop in. She met his eyes, but only briefly, before looking at Michael with a strained, faux-apologetic expression.

"Hey," she said, dragging out the word. "We have a little problem."

Castiel looked forward again, and Michael's face soured. "A problem?"

"Yeah," Anael went on. "So—I was checking my emails while I was trying to get out of the parking lot. You know. Multitasking. And I—Well, I crashed my car."

Castiel dropped his shoulders. When he promised Anael his car, he didn't think she'd ruin her own.

Michael raised his brows. "Into?"

"Your car."

Castiel only just managed to keep himself from rolling his eyes. He'd gotten what he'd asked for, after all. Beggars can't be choosers.

"Anael!"

"Sorry! It just happened!"

Michael stood up at once, furiously buttoning his suit jacket. "It happened because you were looking at your phone while you were supposed to be driving. How bad is the damage?"

She huffed convincingly, as if she were the one inconvenienced. "I don't know, Michael! Why don't you tell me?"

Michael gritted his teeth, and then glanced down at Castiel like he'd just remembered he was there. Castiel tried to keep his expression as innocent as he could. "Castiel, can we discuss this later? It appears I have other matters to attend to," Michael said, his last words biting as he half-directed them towards Anael.

Castiel nodded. "Of course. I'll, um—pay a visit to the community outreach team to talk about the fair. Oh, Anael.” He stood up, and fished his car keys out of his coat pocket to offer them to her. She walked in fully, holding her hand out to accept them as he said, “If your car is damaged, take mine. I may be here for a while. I’ll call a taxi to take me home.”

She grinned as she picked up the keys from his palm. “See, now _you’re_ a good brother. _Thank you_ , Castiel.”

“Come, Anael,” Michael demanded, and then stomped around his desk and towards the door. Anael shot Castiel a wink, and he didn’t really know how to respond to that besides winking back at her, and it felt extremely uncomfortable to do. Nevertheless, she spun around, and she and Michael continued to argue on their way out the door, but their words were indecipherable through the wall. As soon as they faded, Castiel jumped into action.

First, he leaned over Michael's desk and rifled through the papers and file folders until he found a hefty printed Powerpoint deck. He grabbed it and left the office, where Hannah was typing away at her computer.

"Hannah," he said, catching her attention. "Michael asked if you could make copies of this while he's downstairs." He held out the packet, and she glanced down at it before relieving him of it. It must have been fifty pages or more.

"No problem," she said automatically. "How many did he want?"

"Um," Castiel said, doing his best to sound apologetic. "A hundred."

Her face tightened. "A hundred," she repeated.

"I think he wants to circulate it to certain employees," he said, quickly making up an excuse. "And, um . . . He doesn't want them stapled like the machine does. He wants them—."

"Vertically in the corners. I know," she said, a hint of stress in her voice as she flipped through the pages as if counting them. She sighed, and then stood up. "Okay, I'll get to that."

"Thank you," Castiel said as she walked around him. He really did feel poorly creating needless work for her, but he needed her away from her desk. Playing it up, he asked, "Do you need help?"

She turned briefly, and for a second it looked like she might take him up on the offer. But then she let out a breath and said, "No. Thanks. I'll be right back."

He nodded, and hoped she wouldn't be back too soon.

They didn't have a lot of time as it were, so Castiel quickly rounded the corner from Michael's office towards the stairwell he'd told Dean about. He held his breath as he opened the door, and let it out when he spotted Dean sitting on the top step, playing on his phone, his back to Castiel.

"Dean."

Dean looked around, and shoved his phone back into his pocket before standing up. "Finally. What do you guys even talk about on a Sunday?"

Castiel let out a frustrated sound. "I'm sorry I kept you waiting as I tricked both my brother and his assistant. Maybe next time, I'll give you the more difficult task."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Alright, alright. You made your point. Wanna waste some more time?"

Castiel almost argued back, but it wasn't worth it. He turned around on his heels, and looked this way and that to make sure no one was around before sneaking back into the hall, Dean trailing him. They had to pass a security camera in the corner of the hall that led towards the cubicles, but there was nothing they could do about that. They just kept their heads down and walked past it as quickly as they could.

Castiel could breathe a little easier once they were behind closed doors in Michael's office, and he considered locking the door in case anyone tried to come in, but that would probably be more suspicious. The two of them got to work quickly. Castiel went over to the filing cabinet along the wall and rifled through it, searching for anything out of the ordinary.

Dean went to Michael's desk and started going through the drawers. He said, "You think anything's on his computer? There's some external hard drives in here."

Castiel didn't glance back as he continued his search. "Possibly, but we don't have time to look through them."

Dean hummed. And Castiel hadn't realized he'd taken out his phone again until he began speaking into it. "Yeah, Charlie, any chance you can hack onto an external hard drive?"

There was chatter on the other end, and Castiel stopped what he was doing to furrow his brow in concentration, trying to hear what she was saying.

Dean said, "Okay, but if he does plug it in—? No, I don't know when. Any time . . . Okay. Yeah, hang on." He tucked his phone between his ear and shoulder as he went over to the computer. "A Mac . . . What's a terminal? Yeah, okay . . . Alright, I'm ready."

Castiel heard the cadence of Charlie's voice as Dean typed something out on the keyboard. "Okay, seven . . . Slow down. Okay, it's in . . . No, it's not for Sam. I'll explain later."

As Dean continued whatever he was doing at Michael's computer, Castiel closed the filing cabinet and crossed towards the coat closet on the other side of the room.

"Thanks, Charlie. I appreciate it. I'll call you late—Yeah, I promise I will. I gotta go. Bye."

Castiel hadn't expected to find anything inside the closet, but he pushed Michael's peacoat and blazer to the side and found a safe built into the back wall. "Dean," he said, and Dean looked up from where he was squinting at the computer screen. He rounded the desk to stand next to Castiel, and the closet was narrow enough that their shoulders pressed together as they crowded in. Castiel tried not to pay attention to the way his pulse sped up at that.

"You think there's anything in there?" Dean asked, and Castiel shrugged. Dean leaned in, fingers hovering over the keypad of the safe. "Any idea what the code might be?"

Castiel looked over his shoulder, doing a sweep of the room as if the code would be written on the walls. "Um. Maybe his birthday? November twenty-fourth."

Dean punched it in, and the light blinked red. He groaned. "Any other bright ideas?"

Castiel considered it, but his mind was blanking under the stress. He said the first thing that came to mind. "August twenty-seventh."

The light blinked green and clicked open after Dean put in the code, and he glanced back at Castiel as if asking for an explanation.

"I was our mother's birthday," he said. Dean's face softened at that, and then he turned back to the safe. When the door opened up, Castiel blanched at the contents inside. Stacks of money lined the safe. He couldn’t tell what the bills were, but he assumed it totaled a rather high number. It was likely money waiting to be laundered.

Dean sucked in a sharp breath. “Holy shit,” he muttered, and his fingers reached out, as if he were about to touch the money, but then he quickly drew them away. “Fuckin’ rich people, man.”

Castiel turned to him, brow lined in annoyance. He had no idea what Dean had meant by that, but he assumed it was offensive. Dean glanced at him out of the corners of his eyes, and his lips pressed together awkwardly, making his cheeks dimple.

They both turned their focus back on the safe. Despite the amount of cash, there was nothing connecting Evangelist to the murders or drug trade.

Presently, Castiel became aware of footfalls sounding down the hallway. He tensed, hoping against hope that they would pass. But then he heard Michael's voice through the door say, "Hannah?"

"Damn it," Castiel hissed. They were out of time, and there was no way to escape. He searched around wildly for a place for them to hide, but there was nothing.

Well, there was something.

He grabbed Dean by the back of his shirt and manhandled him into the closet, ignoring Dean's grunts of protest. Castiel stuffed himself inside with Dean, and reached out to palm the door closed as best he could, until they were engulfed in darkness, only a sliver of light coming through to cut up the side of his face. He held his breath and waited, and was far too aware of Dean's breathing.

"Be quiet," he warned.

"I'm not—."

"You're breathing."

"I have to fucking breathe, Cas."

"Not that loudly."

He couldn't see Dean, but he could picture his wide eyes, and his forehead lining as his brows shot up in offense. Dean squirmed a little. "Move your damn elb—."

"Shh!"

The main door of the office clicked open, and the pair of them immediately fell into silence.

Castiel wished he could see what was going on outside the door. He listened closely, hearing Michael mill about. There was a soft rustling noise, and Castiel prayed he wouldn’t come to the coat closet. He begged God that Michael wouldn’t stay long. His heart was pounding so hard, he could practically hear it.

And he could feel Dean’s heart thundering against his chest, too, just out of tandem with Castiel’s own. It was uncomfortable, pinned so close to him—his body flush against Dean’s and his back pressed tightly against the wall. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, they flickered up to make out the vague outline of Dean’s jaw. He realized, belatedly, that Dean’s hands were on his sides. He didn’t even think Dean knew he was doing it.

Outside, he heard Michael speaking into the phone, “Hello, I need a tow truck to the parking garage outside of Evangelist immediately . . . This is Michael Novak . . . Yes . . . I appreciate your haste.”

Dean shifted slightly, trying to adjust his position, but all it served to do was slot his thigh between Castiel’s legs, and the sensation it caused made Castiel nearly jump. He hadn’t been this close to Dean in months, and he tried to tell himself that this was not the time or place to think of such things, but he ached to feel Dean’s touch again.

He brought himself in closer, pretending to find a more comfortable position, too, and brought his face against Dean’s collar. He breathed him in for a moment, taking in the familiar scent of his aftershave. He heard Dean’s breath pick up.

Castiel’s hands moved to Dean’s hips, gripping at the fabric of his shirt. He moved his leg slightly to fit it between Dean’s, and pressed against his groin. Dean’s throat clicked, and he stifled at low hum. Castiel couldn’t help himself. He was hollowed out with want. He lifted his chin and dragged his lips along the line of Dean’s throat. He felt Dean’s fingers tighten around him, urging him on.

Dean angled his head slightly downward, and Castiel felt the velvet touch of his lips on the shell of his ear, the press of his nose on his hairline.

And he tried to trick himself into thinking Dean still wanted him.

And then, outside, the office door shut again. Michael was gone.

Dean gasped, and tore the closet door open.

Castiel thought he might double over from the shock of Dean’s warmth no longer pressed against him. His stomach was in knots as Dean practically ran out of the office.

He sighed, knowing he’d ruined everything. Dean would call all this off. He’d tell Castiel that he and Sam no longer needed his help. They would continue on their own, and Castiel wouldn’t be welcome back in their lives—in whatever capacity.

He had to fix this. Maybe it wasn’t too late.

He knew Dean didn’t want him anymore, and he doubted Dean even wanted him as a friend at this point. But he couldn’t just allow Dean to walk out on him for good.

Castiel went after him, rushing after Dean down the concrete stairwell, trying to catch up with him, but Dean seemed to be taking the stairs in leaps and bounds, two or three at a time. Dean shoved his way out of the metal door with a bang, and Castiel reached it just before the pressure joint above it closed it fully. He squinted in the sudden brightness of daylight, and glanced around wildly for the direction Dean went in.

He was in the alleyway that separated Evangelist from the neighboring building. Castiel called after him, Dean’s name echoing off the bricks, but Dean didn’t stop. He walked so fast he might as well have been jogging.

He ran, pushing himself as fast as he could go, until he managed to catch up with Dean midway down the alley.

“Dean,” he said, reaching out to grab Dean’s arm to spin him around.

And the next thing he knew, Dean grabbed him by the front of his jacket and hauled him against the wall, until Castiel’s back was against the hard bricks of the alley. It almost knocked the wind out of him; but he found there was hardly any air in his lungs to begin with. Dean was standing close again, but this time there wasn’t the excuse of limited space. His fists tugged in the front of Castiel’s clothes and his nose was only inches away.

“What the fuck was that?” he demanded, voice low and pissed off. His gaze kept bouncing between Castiel’s eyes and mouth like he couldn’t decide which to focus on.

Castiel swallowed. He balled his fists at his sides and told himself not to touch Dean. It would lead to no good. Even the proximity was dangerous, and he had to tell himself that Dean didn’t want him. Dean just needed him for revenge on Evangelist. After that, he wouldn’t want to see Castiel again.

He told himself it didn’t matter. He forced himself not to feel anything about it.

“What was what?”

“Inside,” Dean demanded, baring his teeth. “In the closet.”

Castiel tensed his jaw. He hadn’t meant to do it. He didn’t know what had come over him. He’d pretended that he didn’t long for Dean, but it was hard to think of anything else when they were pressed so close together.

“There wasn’t—,” he said, trying to make up a plausible excuse. “There wasn’t a lot of space.” It was a lame justification and neither of them bought it.

“Bullshit!” Dean’s tone was like venom, but his eyes were betraying him. They were too vulnerable. “You can’t _do_ that! You can’t fucking do that! It’s not—.”

“Not what?” Castiel challenged. “Not fair?” None of this was fair. Dean was making all the rules and all of them were stacked against Castiel.

Dean grunted, frustrated. Castiel brought his hands up to shove him away, but instead he grabbed Dean by the shirt and pulled him in. Their mouths crashed together, and Dean didn’t pull away. He kissed back at once, his hands strengthening their hold on Castiel before weakening and sliding flat down his chest. Dean palmed down Castiel’s sides and grabbed his hips, jerking them forward against his own.

Castiel gasped into Dean’s mouth, and Dean took the opportunity to slide their tongues together, kissing him fast and dirty. He was already half-hard inside his jeans, and heat was pooling quickly in Castiel’s groin until he twitched with need. He pitched his hips into Dean, and Dean moaned into him.

Castiel roughed his hand down Dean’s front and fumbled with the button and zipper of his jeans. When they were undone, he stuffed his hand down Dean’s pants and cupped him through his boxers. Dean broke the kiss with a hissed out curse. He threw his head back and rolled into Castiel’s touch. Castiel leaned in and kissed Dean’s Adam’s apple, scraped his teeth down the column of his neck.

He brought his hand out of Dean’s pants before plunging back in, this time underneath his boxers. He stroked slowly down his length, and swiped his thumb across the moistened head of Dean’s cock. Dean’s lips fell open as he sucked in labored breaths.

“Fuck, Cas,” he said, shivering, when Castiel started jerking him. Dean moved into his touch, snapping his hips back and forth.

Castiel watched his face shift with micro-expression with rapt attention. He was painfully hard now, and his throat was dry, but he wanted nothing more than to watch Dean come undone against him again. He wanted to remind Dean that he was his, that they were each other’s.

Dean shook his head, regaining some of his clarity, before tugging at the sides of Castiel’s shirt to untuck them from his belt. He fumbled with Castiel’s belt, and then undid his pants. Before Castiel knew it, Dean’s hands were digging their fingers into his ass. He let out a broken, wet sound and rolled himself against Dean’s leg. It dragged sparks out of him.

Dean kept one hand on Castiel’s ass. He brought his other up to his mouth and licked a stripe down his palm, and Castiel’s eyes widened at it. Dean push down the front of Castiel’s trousers. His fingers were cold when they touched him, but Castiel still twitched and ached and moaned when Dean wrapped them around him and started working him slowly.

It was incredible. Castiel got lost in the sensation of Dean’s fingers brushing against his pre-come and coming back slick to pump up and down his length. His sure hand stroking him as his other dug deep into Castiel’s ass.

Castiel pressed his head against the brick, and Dean tipped his forehead to rest on his shoulder. They worked each other quickly, their breaths becoming faster and faster, and Castiel felt heat pooling in the base of his spine.

“Dean,” he breathed out. Because he’d wanted this, yes. He’d wanted to touch Dean again. He’d wanted Dean to touch him. But, more than any of that, he wanted _Dean_ —close to him again.

Dean let out a string of curses, and then his body locked up, his hand stilling around Castiel’s cock, and he came hard into Castiel’s fist. Castiel continued to work him through it, until the strained noises in his throat died away.

He buried his nose deeper into Castiel’s collar, and did nothing for a few long seconds. It was torture, and it was bliss, and Castiel rolled into his hand again to remind him that they weren’t done.

A low noise dragged out of Dean’s throat, and he brought his head up again, leaving Castiel’s chest cold. His jaw was a taut line as he slowly began to work Castiel again. His eyes were hard and locked on Castiel’s face, and Castiel met the stare, not daring to look away.

He jerked in and out of Dean’s touch, his knees turning to jelly and his muscles threatening to stop working altogether. There was a pain in his back where his spine kept hitting the brick, but he didn’t care, because Dean’s hands were on him and, despite himself, Dean’s lips were parting as he watched Castiel fuck into his hand.

And then everything went white and spinning and glorious as Castiel orgasmed.

And then Dean’s hands were gone, and he was wiping them against the brick wall with a sour expression. And Castiel, rumpled and exhausted and panting, felt his cheeks burn with shame.

Because Dean really didn’t want him anymore.

Dean turned and took a few steps towards the mouth of the alley. He stopped, posture as tight as a bowstring.

"Dean."

Dean kept his back to Castiel as he continued to stare out of the alley's exit. His hand was pressed over his mouth, and Castiel couldn't tell if he was trying to stifle emotion or hold back vomit. The thought alone made Castiel want to be sick himself.

When Dean made no attempt to reply, Castiel again said, more forcefully this time, "Dean!"

"What d'you want from me?" Dean said at once, rounding on him. His voice was angry, but again, his eyes held a different emotion entirely.

Castiel didn't understand the question. "What do I want from you?" He didn't want anything from Dean.

Dean gave a frustrated sound. "What do you want me to say? That I still need you around? Yeah, Cas, I still need you!"

Castiel leaned back against the bricks, looking down at his feet. He was stepping in an icy puddle, even though it hadn't snowed in days. He tried to remind himself that need was different than want. It was different than love.

"Happy now?" Dean barked, his arms flying out in a wild gesture.

"No," Castiel whispered, miserable.

"Great! Me neither!"

There was a roiling in Castiel's stomach, and he suddenly felt used up and dirty. He wondered if Dean was feeling the same.

In the corner of his eyes, he saw Dean toss his head back in exasperation. His lips were still bruised red, and there was a pink coloration to his cheeks.

"Look," he said, voice hard, "I just . . . need some space, okay? Can you give me that?"

Castiel didn't know what that meant. He thought he had been, but it was difficult to tell. He'd gotten so used to sharing a bubble of space with Dean.

"Because this is just—It's . . ."

"Confusing?" Castiel supplied. He was certainly confused. “Aggravating?”

Dean pressed his lips together, the corners of his jaw bulging out. "Yeah."

He took a few steps forward, still standing much too far away. "I just need a little bit of time to figure out what's going on here."

Castiel didn't know what Dean was trying to figure out. If he still wanted Castiel in his life? If he still loved him? If he could stand the sight of him?

"Okay, Dean. If that's—." He sighed. "If that's what you want."

Dean was silent at that, but the anger seemed to drain from him completely. The look on his face was so soft and sad that Castiel couldn't bring himself to look at it.

Instead, he picked himself off the wall and said, "We should go." Being anywhere near Evangelist with Dean was a risk. Someone could walk by the alley at any moment.

"Yeah, okay," Dean agreed. "This was a bust, anyway, so guess we gotta get back to the drawing board. I'll, uh . . . Can I call you? We can figure out our next move?"

Castiel nodded, still working on getting himself in check. It was difficult to do with Dean looking right at him, but he pulled his shoulders back, and it schooled him enough to let him look at Dean head-on. "Yes. And I'll keep looking for evidence within the company. Perhaps it's somewhere else."

It was unlikely, but it was worth a try.

"Okay," Dean said. He paused for a second, and then turned around to leave. And then he stopped again. His shoulders tensed, and he said, keeping his voice low and rough, "Just be careful."

Castiel wanted to ask him why he cared. He didn't.

Dean left.

///

The whole drive home, Dean couldn't get the phantom touch of Cas' mouth off his lips. They tingled with the sensation, and it sat heavily on his tongue and in front of his teeth. He felt like he was a drug addict who just relapsed. He'd felt so high, so exhilarated, so much better than he had in months, in that alleyway, but then it all came crashing down around him and he instantly hated himself for being so damn weak.

He knew he'd just set himself back in the getting over Cas department, but part of him didn't even care. Part of him thought maybe it wasn't such a bad thing. Until he remembered the body count that Cas' family had left in their wake, and he didn't know if he could live with the knowledge of that in the back of his head every night for the rest of his life as he kissed Cas goodnight.

He was exhausted by the time he trudged through the door of his apartment, healing leg sore and thighs burning from walking up all the stairs of his building. He didn't even know why he was so tired. The whole day was a waste, anyway. Maybe it was just a mental exhaustion. He should have been used to that by now.

Sam was at the kitchen table doing his homework, and Dean paused momentarily to shoot him a weary glance. He didn't even have to speak for Sam to get the message.

"Nothin', huh?"

Dean grunted in annoyance and slumped towards the couch. He fell onto the cushions and stared blankly ahead—his mind reeling with the events of the day. Trying to distract himself, he leaned down and rolled up his pant-leg, checking out the burn that was little more than scar tissue by now. According to the doctors and the Internet, it would heal, but he was pretty sure he’d have that scar for the rest of his life no matter how much steroid ointment he put on it. He didn't even notice Sam had walked in before he was standing over him.

"Dude, you okay? You look like crap."

Dean let out a breath at sat back up. "Yeah, I'm fine," he lied. All things considered, he'd been better, and he'd been worse, but it really wasn't worth the effort to air his grievances.

Sam didn't seem to take that as an answer though. He nudged Dean's boot with the toe of his sneaker. "What the hell happened?"

Dean grunted again, and mustered just enough energy to lean forward, putting his elbows into his knees. He focused on the sharp weight of them digging into his muscles, and rubbed at his eye with his pointer finger. "Nothing," he insisted, and he really didn't know why he contradicted himself by adding, "It's just . . . Cas."

Sam narrowed his brows, and perched on the edge of the coffee table. "Did something happen?"

Dean snorted. He decided to spare Sam of the X-rated details. "Just having him around again, you know?" he said. He pressed his palm to his mouth, holding onto the feeling of Cas' kiss still on his lips. It was almost enough to make him smile, and almost enough to reignite his anger. "I thought I could do it. But . . . I dunno, man."

He scoffed out a laugh, and Sam just sat there listening, his eyes big and sympathetic.

"I got no idea what I'm doing, Sammy," he said bitterly. He wanted to shut up, but now that he'd started, he didn't know how to stop. "Most of the time I wanna clock him. But other times . . ."

He didn't really know what he was even saying. It was hard to explain how he felt, because he really didn't understand it himself.

"Yeah, I get it," Sam said quietly, looking down at his lap. "But, Dean—everything that happened. To Mom, to Jess. It wasn't his fault."

"I know." And he did know. He did. Rationally. But, for some reason, it wasn't enough. He should have been blaming Michael. Maybe it was just easier to blame Cas. "Believe me, I do. But that don't make a difference." He hung his head. "Wish it did."

He swallowed, forcing himself to marshal his emotions. When he thought he'd gotten them in check, he looked back up at Sam. "But I don't think I can just never see him again. I want . . ."

He had no idea what he wanted, so he left it hanging in the air, hoping Sam would have better insight.

Sam dropped his shoulders in a breath. "Maybe you just need some time," he suggested. Dean nodded. He'd said the same thing to Cas, but he honestly didn't know if it would help. He didn't exactly see this crap going away any time soon.

"Maybe," Sam said, holding up his palm before letting it fall back down to his lap. "Maybe you just need to get used to having him back around. And—and—and, if you decide you can't do it, then you can cut him loose. But you don't have to make up your mind right now, man. Just . . . give him a chance. Take it slow, you know?"

Dean was looking off to the side in thought, staring into the middle distance as he let Sam's words sink in.

"Baby steps," Sam finished.

Dean thought maybe he could do that. He just didn't know if Cas would let him. After today, he wouldn't blame Cas for never wanting to talk to him again.

"You think that could work?" he asked, looking back up at Sam, still feeling lost and confused but a little less alone. "I mean, you think Cas would wanna give it a try?"

Sam's cheeks broke into a small smile. "Yeah, Dean. Trust me, it's pretty obvious how he still feels about you."

Dean didn't know how he'd come to that conclusion. So far, Dean had mostly only seen Cas in robot-mode. But maybe Sam had seen something different.

He passed his hand over his lips again, half trying to smear Cas' touch off of them and half trying to keep it there a little longer, just in case he never felt it again. "Maybe," he allowed.

Sam pressed his mouth into a line, and reached over to smack Dean's knee in a playful, supportive gesture. Dean shot him a frail smile, more for Sam's sake than for his own. Sam returned it, and then retreated back into the kitchen to do his homework.

Dean sat there for a minute, chewing on the inside of his cheek. Then, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He scrolled down to Cas' number, deciding whether or not to text him, but he didn't even know what he'd say.

In the end, he locked his phone again and set it down on his lap.

Baby steps, he told himself. Today, he'd take out his phone. Maybe tomorrow, he'd actually be able to call Cas.

Baby steps.


	20. Chapter 20

The next night, Cas, Charlie, and Eileen came over. They wanted to keep as few people as possible in the loop for the time being, but they needed help. Namely, they needed more of Charlie’s computer skills, and there was no way she would just forget about the fact that Dean owed her an explanation for the hard drives in Michael’s office. And Eileen still had her internship at the hospital, which could come in handy.

Dean, Sam, and Cas filled them in on what was going on, and what the general plan was. Charlie agreed to help right away, which Dean kind of figured she would. He thought Eileen might have some reservations about losing her job if she got caught poking around, but she said she’d do anything she could to help.

Sam said he’d try to dig something up at the law firm, and Cas would continue to keep his eyes and ears open at Evangelist. Dean had wanted to go to Crowley, to get himself back into the inner-circle, but no one seemed too keen on that idea. He decided to shelve it for the time being.

Charlie left first, saying she’d get started on hacking into Evangelist’s servers that night. Sam and Eileen left after to study or whatever those two crazy kids got up to. And Dean almost begged him to stay, because that left him and Cas alone, which wasn’t exactly ideal.

Because, every time Dean looked at him, he remembered the alley outside Evangelist. And he thought about how much he wanted to do that again. But that would be just about the worst idea ever.

They were only alone for about a minute before Cas stood up from the couch and said, “Alright, I’ll be in touch.” Dean got up, too. Like always, his heart skipped a little at the finality in Cas’ tone, because that only meant he was leaving. As much as Dean didn’t want to be around Cas, he also really wanted to stall him, to get him to stay a little longer, because every time Cas walked out the door these days Dean thought he’d never come back.

It was annoying, and confusing, and he thought he’d get whiplash.

“Yeah, okay. Text me tomorrow.” _To let me know you’re alright_ , he didn’t add.

Cas flipped down the collar of his coat after he put it on, straightening it out, and then lingered there, seeming to consider Dean. Dean thought maybe he wanted to stay, too. "Dean, about your plan for Crowley," he said. Dean almost rolled his eyes, just knowing that Cas was about to nag him about not going through with it. He was surprised when Cas continued, "I don't think it's stupid, like the others do."

Dean balked, half in shock and half offended. "They didn't—no one said it was stupid, Cas. They just said it wasn't safe."

Cas blinked at him like he didn't understand the difference. Slowly, he said, "Yes." And then, "Regardless, I believe we may be able to use Crowley, if it comes to that. I'm not suggesting you put yourself back under his employ, but—Crowley is ambitious. He wants more power. If we make him believe he can gain it by ousting Michael and Raphael, he may help us."

Dean really didn't want to ask how Cas knew that. Did he actually have a conversation with Crowley, and he waited until now to mention that? "Yeah, but we don't wanna replace one kingpin with another, right?"

"No," Cas agreed. "Granted, Crowley's reach would be less significant than Michael's, but we shouldn't underestimate him."

"How do you know all this?" Dean dared to ask, still not sure he wanted the answer.

Cas opened and closed his mouth a few times, looking sketchy. "I spoke to him the night of the benefit party. He was at the Masters' home meeting with Azazel. It's—it's not of import."

Dean popped his brows. "Oh, it's not of import."

"The point is," Cas cut back in forcefully before settling some. "Crowley is volatile. We can't control him. We need to be certain he'll help us before we go to him."

"And, for that, we'll need to give him an offer he can't refuse," Dean said, agreeing. He guessed he never really thought about it. Crowley did control a lot of the drug trade, even if Yellow Eyes put him on a leash in the form of Meg. With the Novaks gone, there'd be an opening on the throne—drugs, maybe even the poker games. Crowley was just enough of a dick to want that for himself; but he was a businessman, not a murderer. The devil you know . . .

"Exactly. But I think we should discuss the option further in the future."

Dean nodded, eyes shifting as he thought about it. Maybe the others didn't like it, but it was nice to know Cas was on his side. And, this way, Dean wouldn't have to risk his own ass hauling drugs again. As cool as it would be to be a double agent, this was definitely preferable.

"Yeah, sounds good."

Cas almost smiled then. "Good."

“Okay.”

“Bye.”

“Bye.”

They both leaned in then, as if going for a quick peck on the lips before parting. They’d done that so often, so casually, that it was second nature. It always felt weird not to do it; and, whenever they’d skipped it, Dean felt like he’d been missing something for the rest of the day, like he’d forgotten to turn the oven off.

They realized what they were doing just before the kiss landed, however, and Dean quickly corrected himself. He cleared his throat, and Cas ducked his head away awkwardly and leaned back out of Dean’s personal space. Dean couldn’t really look at him dead on after that, but he saw Cas bite down on his lips like it was an alternative to the kiss.

Yeah. It definitely felt weird.

Dean rubbed at the back of his neck, and chuckled inelegantly to fill the sudden silence. He didn’t know if he could do this—to still be so close to Cas but not acknowledge whatever was still between them. He’d thought he could do it. Hell, that was kind of his whole MO. But this was new territory, and he needed to know if they were both going to ignore it and pretend like it didn’t exist or if Cas was just waiting for Dean’s cue.

Cas would probably be waiting forever, if that were the case.

“What the hell are we doing here, man?” he asked, and hoped Cas would tell him what to think.

As usual, Cas offered nothing decisive. “I don’t know,” he whispered down at the floor. “I thought—you said you needed space. And time. I wanted to give you that.”

Dean had said that, and it was the truth. But he really didn’t have an end date for that in sight, and he was afraid it’d put so much space between them that it would become a crater. “Yeah, but for how long?”

Cas sighed, voice a little sad and a little frustrated. “You tell me.”

Dean nodded, but he still didn’t have an answer. Maybe there was a way to fill the gap in the meantime. An idea struck him, and he lifted his brows and shrugged as he considered it. It would get Cas to stay a little while longer, which might scratch Dean’s itch to be around him for the time being. And it would be good old fashion clean, wholesome fun, which might stop Dean from wanting to tear Cas’ clothes off. It was kind of like killing two birds with one stone.

“Maybe we take baby steps,” he suggested, remembering Sam’s words.

Cas’ forehead lined, that cute little vertical wrinkle creasing the bridge of his nose. “What baby steps?” Dean could practically hear the air quotes.

He shrugged again, overlooking Cas’ skepticism. “How about dinner? I can cook something.”

Cas was looking at him like it was the most unfathomable idea on the planet. “You wanna cook for me?”

“Sure,” Dean said. “We’ll just need to go to the store. Tell you what, you can pick out whatever, and I’ll throw something together.”

Cas thinned his lips again, and looked off like he was grappling with the notion of it. Something was making him uncomfortable about it, and Dean’s stomach tightened in the fear that Cas would reject him again. Finally, Cas said, “Do you think we should be going out in public together? Someone might see us.”

Dean rolled his eyes, but he was kind of relieved that was Cas’ worry. “Why, you don’t wanna be seen with me?” he tried to joke.

Cas’ eyes slid back to him, regarding him severely out of the corners of them. “It’s not that,” he said. “But, yes. For certain people, anyway.”

“Well, I don’t think anyone in your family does their grocery shopping at the Save-a-Lot, do you?”

Looking down again, Cas admitted, “No.”

“Great! Fantastic!” Dean said, trying to keep his body language as casual as possible to hide how fast his blood was pumping through his ears. “So, dinner?”

He tried not to hold his breath. Really, he had no idea how he’d react if Cas said no. He was really trying here, because the clumsy, fumbling, scattered remains of a friendship were better than nothing at all.

Cas’ eyes glimmered a little in a smile that barely reached his lips. “Yes. Let’s have dinner.”

Dean’s whole body relaxed.

“Awesome.” He pointed over his shoulder toward the hallway and backpedalled a few steps. “I’ll go get my keys.”

He really hoped the rest of the night wouldn’t be this socially awkward.

///

The initial trip to the store had been a little strange. Neither of them spoke much, just letting the tape in the deck play on low as the Impala’s engine revved each time Dean hit the acceleration. And he hit it a lot, probably because he wanted to get the drive over with as quickly as possible.

Castiel was okay sitting in silence though, no matter how uncomfortable. He had missed riding in the Impala. He’d missed the smell of it—leather and musk, and a little earthy like Dean. He missed the creaking of the vinyl underneath him every time he shifted. He missed the old world beauty of it.

He missed his truck, too.

At one point during the drive, he felt Dean’s eyes on him, and his own gaze was attracted towards him. Dean blinked, seeming caught out for a moment, before his expression turned into a tight smile. Castiel tried to smile back before looking down at his hands.

He wasn’t certain what Dean had meant when he said “baby steps,” and he wondered if such a sense of discomfort were normal. There had once been such an ease between them, but he assumed much of that had been lost with everything that had happened. He didn’t know if they’d ever be able to reestablish it, or if these “baby steps” were bound to end in failure. He was willing to try, though.

He could be Dean’s friend, or whatever Dean needed him to be. He just didn’t want to be cut out of the Winchesters’ lives entirely as he had been for months. He thought Dean might change his mind, pull off to the side of the road, and cast Castiel out at any moment, and Castiel worried that anything could set him off. He felt as if he was walking on eggshells, but he would continue to do so until he was certain Dean wouldn’t send him away.

He didn’t know if he’d ever be certain of that.

By that time of night, the grocery store was mostly empty, save for a few people pushing carts with select few items through the aisles. The sun had gone down hours ago, and the harsh lighting seemed even brighter than usual as it bathed the shelves with a greenish tint. Castiel had collected a basket from the store’s entrance and made for the produce section. It was sparse, and the vegetables were wilted and sorry-looking. He had to dig through them to pick out anything that appeared edible.

Dean hovered behind him, reaching up every now and again to flick a sign that read _pickles_ or _apples_ as Castiel busied himself picking out a head of broccoli that didn’t have fuzz on it and snow peas in a Styrofoam wrapping that didn’t appear mushy. He managed to find an acorn squash that didn’t have a hole in it, which was more than he could say about the onions, so he tossed it into the basket.

Every time he added something, Dean eyed him skeptically.

“Where’s the starch?” he asked as Castiel moved out of the produce section towards the refrigerated meats.

“I don’t think we need one,” he answered, not glancing around to look at Dean over his shoulder as he pondered what meat to get.

“Not even a potato?”

Castiel sighed, annoyed. “You said I could pick out the ingredients.”

“So, what, you came up with a master plan to get me to eat a vegetable?”

He smiled gently, turning that time so Dean could see it. “Yes.”

Dean huffed, but appeared to accept it. Still, he didn’t seem totally pleased. He continued to protest by shoving his hands into the basket hanging from Castiel’s elbow and fondling the food. “Okay, fine. But look at all this random shit. What am I supposed to do with all this?”

Castiel shrugged and continued to walk at a slow pace. “Consider it a challenge.” Dean always responded well to dares.

“Now, that I can do. But work with me here, Cas. I mean, would _you_ be able to throw something together with this?” Dean asked, his voice rising in pitch as he answered his own question: “I don’t think so!”

Castiel spun around then, causing Dean to nearly bump into him before he stopped walking, too. “What does that mean?” he asked, offended.

Dean shot him a _you’re kidding, right?_ look. “You don’t cook.”

“I cook!”

“No, like, _cook_ -cook. Not just the same thing every week that takes twenty minutes.”

Castiel had to admit, Dean was right. He’d never really taken the time to learn how to cook more than the basics, but he’d never really needed to. It was still a little insulting when Dean chuckled and went on, “I mean, no offense. But you probably had a personal chef growing up, right?”

Castiel rolled his eyes and turned away again. “We didn’t have a chef.” He paused, and for the sake of transparency, admitted, “We had a nanny.”

“Oh. Uh-huh,” Dean said behind him, sounding amused.

Castiel picked up a steak and assessed it before deciding against it. “She cooked for us,” he said absently, setting the package of meat back down and moving on.

“Must be nice,” Dean teased as he trailed after him. He was walking close to Castiel’s back, their bodies brushing every now and again. It was comfortable, and exhilarating. It felt like old times.

“Actually, she was very mean.”

“What’d she break out the wooden spoon on you? Give you an ass whooping?”

“No, she never beat us.” Something occurred to him—something he’d never thought to ask before. “What about you?”

Dean didn’t seem to understand. He paused for a second before asking, “What _about_ me? Did I ever get beat with a spoon?”

“No. Did you always cook for your family?” Castiel clarified, but then Dean’s words caught up to him. He furrowed his brow and turned back around to face him. “Wait, _did_ you get beat with a spoon?”

Dean stared at him for a second, expression blank. Then, he lifted his brows playfully and walked around Castiel to the shelves at the end of the aisles. He picked up a bag of potato chips and said, “Yeah, I usually cooked for Sammy. Dad was always at whatever base we lived near at the time. He stayed pretty late—sometimes overnight. And ate most his meals there. So, you know, kid’s gotta eat.” He replaced the bag, the plastic crinkling as it settled back on the shelf. He turned around again and continued, “It was mostly mac ‘n cheese at first. Got a little creative with that some nights. Put peanut butter in, grape jelly. Sam was always a fan of marshmallow fluff night.”

That sounded disgusting, but Castiel didn’t comment.

“Then, when I got older, it was rice and chicken and simple crap like that. Then, I dunno. Started experimenting with other stuff, I guess.” He shrugged, like it was no big deal. He always did that, downplayed his accomplishments, no matter how proud Castiel knew he was of them.

“Well, you taught yourself well,” Castiel said, gently attempting to boost his confidence in a way that Dean wouldn’t shrink back from.

Dean smiled shyly down at the cracked, off-white tiles. His eyes were a stark green under the lighting of the store. “Aw, shucks, Cas. Bet you say that to all the girls.”

Castiel ignored that. He looked around, squinting at the wall of butcher meat before his eyes landed on the sign for seafood at the end of the section. He walked towards it, Dean in tow, and picked up a package of salmon. He thought that would do nicely. He added it to the basket.

“Great, no starch _or_ red meat. Why did I agree to this?” Dean grouched.

“It was your idea,” Castiel reminded him.

“Oh, right.” He went to the shelves again and snatched up a package of double stuffed Oreos, smirking smugly at Castiel as he dropped it into the basket. Castiel allowed it.

They went to check out at the front of the store, where only one register was open, a bored-looking teenage girl in an apron behind it. Her face was drawn and washed out in the fluorescents. They got on line behind the person currently adding her items to the conveyor belt, and Dean busied himself by plucking a magazine off the rack and flipping through it idly.

“Looks like Brad and Angelina were spotted together again,” he said. Castiel continued to face front, patiently awaiting his turn to pay.

“Oh, hey, look at this,” Dean went on, his tone brightening as he read off, “ _Ten sure-fire ways to drive him crazy in bed_.” He leaned in, hooking his chin over Castiel’s shoulder and wrapping his arms underneath Castiel’s so he could hold up the open pages to show him. “Think we should buy this?”

Castiel went rigid, even though all he wanted to do was melt back against Dean and stay there in his arms. He thought maybe Dean was testing him to see how he would respond, or maybe Dean was just flirting, as was his nature. Maybe it didn’t mean anything. Castiel wasn’t certain, but his pulse stuttered a little in the asinine thought that Dean was being serious. It urged him to add the magazine to their basket, but he stopped himself. He would only go as fast as Dean was willing to.

“I don’t think that constitutes as baby steps,” he said.

Dean hummed, and then drew away, and Castiel wished he hadn’t opened his big mouth. “Yeah, you’re probably right.” Dean flipped the magazine closed and set it back on the rack backwards.

Thankfully, the conveyor belt had nudged up just enough for there to be a space between the woman’s groceries and their own. Castiel forced himself to remain occupied by unloading the basket. He told himself not to think of Dean’s strong arms around him, or how their bodies had been pressed together just moments ago. He tried not to think of it, but that only made him think about it more. By the time they got to the car, he was a little hotter than he had been before, and he had to shift uncomfortably in his seat.

He didn’t miss the sly, self-satisfied smile Dean shot his way before putting the Impala into drive.

///

Dean really didn’t know what he was doing with the ingredients that Cas picked out, so he decided to keep it simple. He made Cas help him chop up the vegetables on the small counter by the stove, their shoulders continuously brushing in the close proximity. They listened to music as they worked, and didn’t talk much. Cas kept throwing him glances, which Dean caught out of the corner of his eyes—because, whether he tried to or not, he was always looking at Cas. When he tried to return the gaze, Cas would look away.

He roasted the vegetables in the oven with some oil and spices, and pan seared the fish until the skin was crispy and the meat was tender. He only used some basic spices on it, like salt and pepper and a little bit of garlic powder. He splashed in some apple cider vinegar, too, because why not? He wasn’t really sure how it was going to taste, but he figured it was worth a shot.

They sat down at the small table to eat, and Dean picked up his fork, moving the vegetables around on his plate to make it look like he wasn’t waiting for Cas to take the first bite. He glanced up sneakily through his lashes as Cas bit down on a forkful of salmon, and something fluttered in his chest when Cas smiled around it.

“This is delicious,” Cas said, and Dean couldn’t help the pride that washed over him. He loved cooking for the people in his life. It was kind of an easy, non-sappy way of showing he cared. Nothing made him happier than when they actually enjoyed it.

“Yeah?” he asked excitedly.

Cas nodded and took a bite of his vegetables. “You should cook these kinds of things more often. You’re clearly very good at it.”

Dean scooped up a cube of squash, smiling bashfully down at it. “Yeah, okay,” he said, trying to brush it off; because, yeah, he loved it, but he wasn’t going to admit it. He bit down on his fork. It was pretty good, actually. He didn’t expect it to taste a little like candy. It must have been the touch of cinnamon he’d sprinkled onto the vegetables while Cas wasn’t looking.

“I mean it,” Cas insisted. “I’ve missed your cooking.” He froze then, suddenly seeming uncertain. He asked, “Is that okay to say?”

Dean glanced up at him again, and didn’t say that he’d missed Cas eating dinner with him. “Yeah, Cas. It’s okay,” he said, and Cas seemed to relax marginally. His nerves fell away enough to eat some more, anyway, and Dean followed his lead.

Salmon was actually pretty good when you gave it a chance.

Throughout the meal, he kept looking over at Cas’ plate to make sure he was actually enjoying the food instead of just saying that. A little rush went through him when Cas scooped a few more vegetables onto his dish.

They chatted a little idly—about Cas’ school, about the garage, about Jack and Claire. Apparently, they missed Dean, and he missed the little squirts, too. He wondered if it would be too much to ask to see them again, so he kept his mouth shut for the time being. Maybe that could come later.

They avoided any in-depth topics, and steered clear of others completely. But it was nice. Dean felt his sharp edges eroding somewhat the longer they talked. It had always been pretty easy to talk to Cas about this kind of stuff. Other stuff though . . . bigger stuff. That was always hard. And terrifying.

All this time, and Cas still scared the shit out of him in the best way.

After dinner, they worked together to clean up and do the dishes. Cas insisted on washing, because it was the “more difficult part,” since Dean cooked. So Dean dried off the dishes and pans and set them aside as he watched Cas make a mess out of washing them. Water kept splashing up onto the counter and down his front, and he made the sponge too soapy so that big globs of suds would fly up onto his shirt when he scrubbed too hard.

Dean laughed when a particularly big collection of suds flung up near the collar of Cas’ shirt. He scooped it up with his finger and touched it to the tip of Cas’ nose, earning a soft chuckle that made him light up from the inside. Cas grabbed some of the suds that had built up in the sink and tossed it at Dean, and that meant war. They pretty much made a mess of the kitchen by the time they were out of breath from laughing, but it was only water and soap, so it was kind of like cleaning.

Maybe it was a little on the nose, but when _Love of My Life_ came on over the radio, Dean decided to throw caution to the wind and pull Cas away from the rest of the dishes. Cas gave a half-ass protest before letting Dean grab his hand and reel him in closer to sway along to the music. It was probably a bad idea, and this wasn’t exactly taking it slow, but tonight had been fun and Dean was a little high off the moment, and it was easy to pretend that things could get back to the way they were before all the shit hit the fan.

Yeah, Dean still felt like the other shoe was going to drop any second. That some other secret would surface, some reason why they shouldn’t be together because they were wrong for each other. He still felt like Cas would slip through his fingers like dust at any second, but that only made him hold on tighter.

He placed their laced hands against his chest, over his heart, as they continued to dance in the small kitchen, Cas smiling at him softly like he’d never been more content. Dean’s own smile faltered slightly, because it still felt like he couldn’t have this, even if he wanted it right now. He might wake up tomorrow and feel differently.

But, for tonight, he wrapped both arms around Cas’ back and pressed his cheek to Cas’, holding him as close as he could. He closed his eyes into it, barely hearing the music anymore. All he knew was the flutter in Cas’ breath, and the beat of his heart thumping against Dean’s chest, and the way Cas’ hands felt on his shoulder blades.

The song was ending soon, and Dean was afraid it would shatter the atmosphere. He wanted Cas to stay a little bit longer, to not realize it was getting late and he should go. He said softly against Cas’ hair, “You wanna watch a movie?”

He heard Cas sigh happily. He felt it. “If that’s what you want, Dean.”

Dean smiled a little in memory, but it was a sad thing. He didn’t really know what he wanted. Just that he wanted Cas to be there on the other side of it.

They broke apart slowly, and Dean turned off the radio. They went into the living room, and didn’t bother setting up Dean’s laptop to the TV. They flipped through the channels until they found some C-grade action movie on one of the random local channels. Dean laid down on the couch, and Cas hesitated unsurely before Dean grabbed his wrist and pulled him down on top of him. They laid chest-to-chest, Cas’ sturdy and warm weight on top of him, their legs tangled together and feet hanging off the edge of the couch.

The movie was dumb, and Dean spent most of the time making up his own dialogue, putting on different voices for the different characters. Cas didn’t exactly laugh out loud at any of it, but Dean felt his body rumbling. Absently, Dean realized he’d been carding his fingers through Cas’ soft mess of curls. He didn’t know how long he’d been doing that, and he stilled momentarily before deciding, _what the hell_. Cas didn’t seem to mind, anyway.

Cas responded after a while by picking up Dean’s other hand and idly playing with his fingers, stroking them and lacing them together with his own, as he watched the ending of the movie.

It was so much like old times that Dean forgot to ache. It just felt right. It felt good. Better than it had felt in a long time. He wondered if Cas had noticed that, too.

When the movie ended, Cas exhaled a gentle breath and picked his cheek off Dean’s chest, replacing it with his chin. Dean looked down to meet his eyes, all blue and sleepy and sparkling. Cas gave him a slight smile. “I better go,” he said quietly.

Dean didn’t want the night to be over. He wanted to stay wrapped up in this warm little bubble where none of the bad stuff could get in. But, despite that wish, they started to seep in anyway, along with all the reasons as to why Cas _should_ leave.

Because Mary was dead, and Ash was dead, and Jessica was dead, and Dean felt like he was insulting their memory just by keeping Cas in his arms.

He blinked away from Cas’ stare, and nodded slightly. “Yeah, okay,” he agreed.

Cas lingered for a second longer, and then pushed himself off of Dean. He stood up and straightened out his shirt where it had gotten rumpled against Dean’s torso. Dean tried not to watch him fix himself, and instead sat upright on the couch and busied himself turning the TV off with the remote.

“Thank you for dinner,” Cas told him as Dean stood up.

“Yeah, no problem,” Dean said. He felt his lips quirk in a grin. “It was actually kinda fun.”

Cas didn’t say anything to that. Maybe he was afraid to agree. He just turned away and went to collect his coat off the rack by the door. Dean trailed after him, one hand in his front jean pocket and the other one opening the door and holding it as Cas shrugged into the garment.

When he was done, they both just kind of hovered there for a second.

“So,” Dean said.

“So,” Cas repeated.

It was _really_ weird not kissing him goodbye.

Dean cleared his throat, trying to power through. “Uh, text me tomorrow.”

“I will. And be careful. Generally, I mean. Alastair is still out there.”

Dean didn’t need the reminder, but he nodded anyway. He stepped away from the threshold so Cas had more room to get through without their bodies brushing. “’Night.”

“Goodnight, Dean.”

Cas gave him one last look, like he was expecting Dean to hold him back. Dean’s fingers itched to reach out for him and pull him back inside, so he shoved his hand deeper into his pocket and let Cas slip into the stairwell.

He closed the door and locked it, and tried not to think about Cas leaving and never coming back again. And he tried not to think about how, with everything that’s happened, that might be for the best.

///

The month progressed, and midterms took up most of Castiel’s time, but he was glad these were the last round of midterms he’d ever have to take. He was relieved when they were over, and he could refocus on Evangelist and the Winchesters. Earlier that day, Castiel received a text from Sam asking him to come over later, and that he had something that would help.

Castiel made his way to the Winchesters' apartment after class, taking the usual precautions of switching bus routes and alternating what streets he walked down—and generally tripling the time it took to travel across town—just in case. It was close to 8 PM when he finally arrived, nearly a half hour after he told Sam he'd be there.

Sam opened the door for him, greeting him with a tight smile that immediately told Castiel that Dean was in a mood. It had been that way for the last few weeks, since they had their . . . date? Castiel wasn't really sure what to call it. They hadn't really dated even when they were together. Regardless, it generally seemed as if Dean were trying to rekindle something of their relationship, even if it were only a little something, but there were also days—or hour or moments—where Castiel was certain Dean wanted nothing to do with him. He knew Dean's head and heart were warring with each other, but he didn't know which would win in the end; and he didn't know what Dean wanted. He did know, however, that if he tried to broach the topic, Dean would shut down on him.

So he kept his mouth shut on the matter, and did his best to navigate the rapids of Dean's emotions while praying more tranquil waters would soon be reached.

Besides, he kind of figured that Dean was upset with him by the simple fact that Sam had been the one to contact him to come over.

Trying not to sigh, Castiel said, "Hello, Sam." He wasn't in the best mood himself. Constantly looking over his shoulder to make sure he wasn't being followed tended to exhaust him, he was finding. He wondered if he was just being paranoid.

As he took off his coat, Dean leaned back on his chair into the doorway to the kitchen, and barked, "Finally. What'd, Emperor Palpatine keep you late?"

"In a way," Castiel supposed as he followed Sam into the kitchen. There were a few manila file folders spread out on the table, some of them open to reveal what looked like contracts. Dean was sitting down leafing through them, an empty beer bottle at his elbow. Sam's laptop was out, too, a dozen windows with photographs of pay slips open and overlapping on the desktop.

"Uh, I talked to Eileen earlier today," Sam was explaining and he cleared some room for Castiel at the table. "Her boss is out today, so she's gonna try to do some digging into the hospital records to see if anything's funny. She said she'd call if she found anything."

"That's good," Castiel said, sitting down. Almost as soon as he did, Dean stood up and went to the fridge. He busied himself by getting another beer, and Castiel ignored the pressure in his throat.

Dean remained standing, leaning back against the sink as he took a swig of his beer. He hadn't looked at Castiel since he walked in, and when he spoke next, it was directed at Sam. "So, you gonna tell us what all this crap is?"

"Yeah," Sam said, perching down on the chair across from Castiel and picking up one of the folders. Castiel gave him his attention. "So, I was going through the archives at work today—one of the partners sent me down there to dig up an old case file, but I figured I'd take advantage, you know? Anyway. I found these."

He offered one of the files to Castiel, who knitted his brows together as he took it and shuffled through it. "It's a contract of employment," he said, trying to suss it out. "For a freelancer?" The date on it was from 2002. "For what, the law firm?"

"It doesn't say, but I think it's for Evangelist," Sam said. "There are tons of these, ranging from the 90s to 2012. That was the same year Lucifer went to jail, right?"

Castiel nodded, still not understanding. He let Sam explain, and pretended not to hold his breath each time Dean moved to take another sip of his beer.

"And, check it out, these payslips correspond with the dates of the contracts," Sam said, sliding his computer over. Dean stood up a little straighter and leaned forward as if he could see the screen from across the room. "Look at the name on them."

Castiel squinted at the grainy camera phone image on the top window, and pulled the laptop a little closer to him when that didn't work. His lips parted, stomach squirming, when he saw the name. Alastair Jones. He looked over at Dean before he knew what he was doing, remembering the searing heat, the choked air, the dead weight of Dean's body as he dragged him from the fire and smoke.

"Alastair," Castiel whispered, hearing the malice in his own tone. Dean's expression flashed vulnerably before he got himself back under control, and then his features twisted into hatred. His eyes flickered away from Castiel's.

"So, what, those are the contracts the Novaks gave him to make the hits?" he asked, voice dripping with anger.

Sam nodded solemnly. "Yeah, I think so. I mean, there's no way to confirm it, but—."

"I got a way." Dean set his beer down on the counter with and clink, and left the room quickly. He was carrying himself too tensely as he tried to seem unaffected by the mention of Alastair. Castiel made brief eye contact with Sam, who pressed his lips into a thin line, silently conveying that he saw the shift in Dean, too, and that Dean was afraid, and that they shouldn't talk about it.

Dean returned a few moments later with a leather-bound book in his hands. He held it like it was something precious, and Castiel tried not to gape when he realized the journal was familiar. He'd used it to write a note to Dean, to say goodbye.

"Is that Dad's?" Sam asked, perplexed.

"Yeah," Dean said distractedly as he flipped through the pages. "Gimme one of the dates you have."

Sam turned towards the papers, shuffling a few around. "Uh—June, 2006."

"June," Dean muttered under his breath, his finger moving down the lines of the journal's page. "Got it. Wilson. What's another one?"

"May, 1999."

Dean flipped a couple pages before exclaiming, "Talley."

"November . . ." Sam paused, and gave a soft sound of shock and grief. His eyes went big and sad, and his voice was much quieter when he said, "November, 2002."

Castiel turned his eyes to Dean, and a muscle in Dean's jaw jumped as he tensed it. He didn't turn a page, but he kept staring down at the journal, completely still. His voice was raw when he asked, "How much?"

Sam sighed. "Dean . . ."

"How much did they pay him?" he yelled, everything about him suddenly hard as stone.

This was about their mother, Castiel realized. He had to stop himself from jumping up and rushing towards Dean, to wrap his arms around him, to comfort him, to plead for his forgiveness. His knuckles turned white as he tried to stay the urge.

Reluctantly, Sam grabbed his laptop and slid it back towards himself. He clicked a few times, and then paused. He muttered, "Fifty-K."

Dean's mouth went jagged, and he nodded down at the book.

The silence stretched on for a long time, broken only by the sound of the water in the pipes. Castiel didn't know what compelled him to try, but he said softly, "Dean—."

Dean spoke at once, loudly, like he wanted to drown out whatever Castiel was going to say next. Like he was ignoring him. He lifted his head and said, "Okay, so we got dates. Any way to link it back to Evangelist?"

Sam shrugged, seeming to recover. "I dunno. I mean, I can make copies of these contracts, go over them with a fine tooth comb. But I have to return the originals before anyone realizes they’re gone."

Dean nodded. "Alright, well, get to it. Anything that might point towards those douchebags fronting the money."

"I can see if there's something on Evangelist's end," Castiel offered. "Perhaps we have our own copies of these contracts."

"Yeah, maybe," Sam agreed.

But Dean said, "No, you should stay outta Dodge." He closed the journal with one hand, pages thudding together softly. "Let me and Sammy take care of this one."

Castiel tilted his head in question. "Why? Wouldn't it make sense to see if—?"

"See if what? We already have the contracts, so what d'we need more copies for?"

"But if there's no direct reference of Evangelist in them—."

"Then there's a reason for that," Dean huffed, voice raising in frustration. Castiel felt anger course hot through his veins. "Because they don't want it traced back to them! So, why would they have copies if they're trying that hard not to be implicated?"

Castiel didn't have a good response, but he still thought it was worth a try.

But then Sam said, gently, "Cas, Dean's right. Let me take a look at these first, and then we'll go from there. Better to play it safe, right?"

Castiel let out a breath through his nose, trying to ease his tension. "If we're too worried about doing things safely, we won't get anything done at all."

Sam held his hand up in a placating way. "I know, I get it. Believe me. But we gotta be smart about this."

It was two against one, Castiel supposed. He relented—for now. But he couldn't shake the feeling that safety wasn't Dean's concern. It was a lack of faith where Castiel was involved. He hoped he was just projecting.

"Besides, we got Charlie working on digging up dirt on Michael," Dean said, and Castiel kept his head down. "We still don't know if anything's on those hard drives in his office.”

"Yeah, but, Dean, that could be nothing," Sam sighed, running his hand through his hair in frustration. "I mean, for all we know that could be old expense reports or his friggin' iTunes library."

"Yeah, or his porn."

Castiel pulled a face. "I highly doubt that."

Dean rolled his eyes in a huff, as if Castiel was being unhelpful. "Point is, we're sitting here with our thumbs up our asses waiting for the off-chance that he'll plug one in."

Castiel leaned back in his chair, pondering their options and chewing on the inside of his cheek. If they really wanted to know what was being stored on the drives in Michael's office, they didn't necessarily have to wait. "Unless I plug them into his computer."

Sam raised his brows, seeming open to the idea. Dean, however, immediately stood up straighter. "What? No. Hell, no. You remember the last time we were in his office?"

How could Castiel forget? "Not _we_ , Dean. Me. I have access to Michael's office."

"Yeah, while he's in it! Your sister had to crash her fucking car to buy you time before. And there were like, seventy drives. You gonna, what? Try one and hope you get lucky while he takes a piss?"

Castiel grated his teeth. "Dean, we're running out of time. The fair is in two months and we still don't have any usable evidence. And since you refused my idea of coercing a confession out of my brothers—."

"Yeah, because it was a shitty idea!" Dean shouted, his voice too big for the small space. "And so's this! Sam, tell 'im."

Sam stayed quiet for a second, his eyes flashing between Castiel and Dean, and Castiel felt a rush of victory because, clearly, Sam was on his side. Apparently, Dean knew it, too, because he bent his knees and spread out his arms, yelling, "Are you serious?"

Sam made a little noise as he jumped to placate his brother. "Okay, Dean, just listen—Cas has a point. We can't wait around forever."

"Thank you," Castiel said pointedly, his eyes still on Dean.

Sam gave another humming sound, clearly aborting whatever he was going to respond with.

Dean turned and started pacing in the small space, his hand going up to pull at his mouth. "And what if nothing's on them, huh? And Cas gets busted, and it's all for nothing?"

"I won't get caught," Castiel promised. He would be careful. He wished Dean had a little more faith in his capabilities.

Dean snorted out a laugh, and it was particularly insulting.

He was about to say something else, but then Sam's cell phone began humming with a video call, the vibrations making it spiral slowly on the tabletop. Castiel glanced down at it, finding Eileen's name on the screen.

"Okay, let's just put a pin in this for now," Sam said, holding his hands up to keep the peace. He turned his eyes on Dean until Dean reluctantly agreed with a grunt, and then he picked up the call and held it up to his face.

"Hey," he said, bringing his hand to his forehead to sign hello. "Dean and Cas are here, too." He held out his arm, angling the phone horizontally so all of them were in the picture.

Eileen appeared to be tucked away in a supply closet of the hospital. Behind her, shelves were packed with bins of equipment, and she was wearing maroon scrubs. "Hi, Dean. Hi, Castiel," she said.

Castiel raised his hand to copy Sam’s signing and tried for a smile, but he could still feel the tension in Dean's shoulders from across the room. His eyes were glued to the small square at the bottom of the screen, where Dean remained hovering on the other end of the small kitchen. Dean said, "Eileen, what d'you have for us?"

"Dean, you're too far away," Sam said over his shoulder before turning back to the phone. "What did you find out?"

Eileen let out an overwhelmed breath and shook her head. "A lot," she said, and it should have been good news. If the information she had could help them, and Castiel should have been relieved. But his stomach twisted into knots, like it did every time he was reminded of what his family had done. He didn't know how he was supposed to continue feeling this way, or if, one day, the guilt would somehow lessen. He wondered if this constant feeling of nausea would be a part of him for the rest of his life.

Dean stepped forward, his hand wrapping around the back of Castiel's chair as he leaned into frame. His other hand rested on the table. Castiel's eyes flickered up to Dean's profile, to the stony jutting of his jaw. He wanted so badly to place his hand over Dean's on the tabletop, to ground himself, and hopefully then he'd feel better. But he didn't know if that was allowed, especially with the mood Dean was in today. He settled for leaning backwards into Dean's fist on his chair, hoping the movement went unnoticed.

"I went through the pharmacy's database, looking for what medications were being prescribed to who," Eileen said. "But, when I cross-checked them with the patient records, there were prescriptions that didn't match up."

"Like how?" Sam asked. "Patients were getting prescribed drugs they didn't need?"

"Yeah, that," Eileen said, "and there were a few names that weren't in the patient database."

Dean shook his head. "What does that mean?"

Castiel's brow collapsed in thought. "They're creating patients that don't exist to fulfill orders," he thought aloud.

Eileen nodded. "I think so."

Sam asked, "How far back do the records go?"

"A few years. There are some archives, too, but I don't have access."

"Maybe Charlie can get to them," Dean suggested, directing it at Sam. He looked back at the phone. "Can you get the names of the fake patients?"

A smile broke out onto Eileen's face. "Way ahead of you."

Dean let out a laugh, and lifted his hand to slap Sam on the back. "That's my girl!"

"Uh, that's my girl, actually," Sam told him, but his lips were flickering as he attempted to keep himself from grinning.

"I better get back," Eileen told them, making them all look back at the phone. "Sam, I'll give you the names tomorrow after class. Want to meet in the dining hall?"

Sam nodded. "Yeah. Thanks, Eileen. And be careful."

She nodded, the corner of her mouth lifting in humor. "I'm always careful."

Sam brought the phone back to himself, and signed goodbye before ending the call. In the meantime, Dean straightened out, and the lines of his body seemed marginally more relaxed. "Finally, some good news."

Sam breathed out, and nodded. "Yeah, let's just hope she doesn't lose her job over it."

Castiel was suddenly fascinated by the tabletop, and he was reminded that many people would lose their jobs thanks to what they were planning.

"Well, still, between the stuff you found and the stuff Eileen's got, I think we can hold off on any other rash ideas," Dean said, and Castiel tightened his jaw. Dean wasn't seeing the bigger picture.

"There's still the matter of connecting these things back to Evangelist," he said, still staring down. "We need proof of that, or else my brothers will find a way to claim innocence."

Dean grunted, pinching the bridge of his nose as if to stifle a headache. "Cas, I swear to God."

"This is the best strategy and you know it," Castiel interrupted. He didn't see why everyone should risk themselves apart from himself. "I'm in a unique position to find what Michael is hiding. We haven't been using that to our advant—."

"You're in a unique position to get your ass handed to you!" Dean erupted. "We got one shot at this, Cas, and too much is riding on that fair you're planning. So, stick to that! Keep your ears open, but don’t go snooping. Let us do the sneaking around.”

"Guys," Sam tried to cut in, but they both ignored him.

"So, I'm supposed to busy myself with vendors and entertainment while everyone else puts themselves in harm's way?"

"Exactly!"

"No."

"No?"

"No. This is my family, Dean. This is my responsibility."

He wouldn't let anyone else suffer because of what they'd done, and he certainly wouldn't let them risk themselves on his behalf while he did nothing.

"No, it's _our_ responsibility!"

They were talking in circles, and all it was doing was making Castiel's blood boil. He stood up, letting the legs of the chair scrape across the floor as he moved into Dean's space. "Then let me doing something."

Dean didn't flinch back, but his eyes widened slightly as they bored into Castiel's. "Dammit, Cas, no!"

"Why not?"

"Because I said so!"

Castiel stared at him for a long time, trying to formulate a response, but all he could do was shake his head. They weren't together anymore. Dean couldn't control what he did. Castiel could do whatever he wished. It wasn't up to Dean or Michael or anyone else.

But he didn't know how to say that, and all that did was frustrate him further. Because Dean shouldn't have tried to control him in the first place. Dean wasn't supposed to replace Michael in that regard. Dean should trust him more.

Castiel wanted him to know that. He wanted them to be equal in this, in everything. But instead he was the one watching his every move while Dean’s hot and cold moods swung backwards and forwards at alarming speeds, dictating their every interaction; and, right now, he couldn't breathe the same air as Dean. He shoved past him towards the front door.

"Cas—," Sam tried to call.

Dean's voice overlapped his. "Where are you going?"

"I need some air," Castiel said without turning back. He left the apartment, letting the front door rattle as it slammed closed behind him. He honestly didn't know where to go. He thought, if he went downstairs, there might be a chance he would let his emotions get the better of him. He would take the first bus downtown and try to break into one of his brothers' offices without a plan.

He realized his hands were in fists at his sides, and forced himself to relax, to breathe. He had to think.

He glanced at the ascending stairwell, and made for the roof.

///

Cas had been getting “some air” for about an hour now, and Dean tried his best not to notice the clock. He would have thought Cas had left, except for the fact that Sam had gone looking for him twenty minutes ago to bring him his coat, and to try to talk some sense into him, only to return from the roof defeated.

So, Dean did what he could. He made dinner. He ate that dinner with Sam in near silence. He did the dishes while Sam went through the contracts. He went into the living room and half-watched TV, half-scrolled through Twitter, not really enjoying or paying attention to either task. Mostly, he was listening to the sound of the February wind gusting audibly around the outside of the building, beating against the windows.

And then Sam came out of his room in a huff, saying, “Dean, it’s like, twenty degrees out there. Go get him inside.”

Dean turned to Sam, standing in his socks and PJs in the entrance to the hall. He turned up his nose with a scoff. “You tried that already, didn’t you? Cas wants to stay out there all night freezing his ass off, no skin off my nose.”

And it wasn’t. Cas was clearly going to do whatever he wanted, no matter how stupid, so Dean was going to let him. It’s not like Dean had a say in what Cas did anymore. Cas would probably disappear again the second all this was over, anyway, so what was the point? He’d go to his sister in New York, or hole up in some town where no one had ever heard of the Novaks.

“Dean, come on. He’ll listen to you.”

Now, that was just hilarious. “Were you even here earlier? He doesn’t listen to a damn thing I say!”

Sam rolled his eyes, and tried to argue, but Dean cut him off. “No, I don’t wanna hear it, Sam. I’m trying to look out for the guy and he’s acting like a friggin’ child.”

“He’s trying to look out for us, too, Dean,” Sam said, and Dean wanted to keep yelling. He wanted to tell Sam to man up, to pick a side, because all he ever did was try to mediate, and Dean was sick of it.

Even though he knew Sam was right this time.

Dean looked back at the TV. Some western was playing in black and white, and he realized he didn’t even remember settling on something to watch. He’d been too wrapped up in thinking about Cas, even when he was pretending not to.

He just wanted things to go back to how they were. He wanted to get past all this. Was that really so much to ask?

Apparently; because Cas couldn’t even stand to be in the same room with him _now_.

And maybe that was Dean’s fault. After all, it wasn’t exactly easy to be around Cas again, to try to find some kind of footing in their relationship. It was hard to be this close and to not have some weird, sick sliver of fool’s hope that things could work out after all, despite evidence to the contrary.

And it was hard not to hate Cas for that most days.

Another gust of wind whistled around the building. Dean groaned, “Dammit.”

He got up, ignoring Sam’s smug-satisfied face, and went right for his jacket on the rack. He slammed the door behind him, just so Sam understood how unhappy he was about all this.

Dean trudged up the steps to the roof, the yellow lights lining the stairwell barely enough to combat the din at this point. It felt kind of appropriate, actually—walking towards Cas in the near-darkness, just a spark of faith flickering inside of him again. He didn’t know if it was about to be stamped out or fanned into a flame. That was up to Cas.

The door banged open heavily, the chill of the night instantly whipping up to bite at his hands and cheeks. He looked around, and spotted Cas in the corner, standing upright and facing outward towards the headlights and taillights zipping by on the distant highway. He looked like a sentry, watching over the world and all of humankind like ants below.

Dean eyed him for a moment, the way the half moon above played silver on his hair. The way the night framed his shoulders. The way he dipped his head in the only indication that he knew Dean was behind him.

Dean paced over to the edge of the roof, settling next to him and clasping his palms onto the barrier. He leaned into them, kicking out one foot behind him and bouncing the toe of his boot against the concrete floor in attempt to keep warm.

Cas said nothing, and after a while Dean decided to be the adult and break the silence. “You ever gonna come back inside?”

“Am I welcome?” Cas asked petulantly.

Dean was about to give up on the whole thing and tell him to go home. He didn’t know why he thought it was worth the effort. “Come on, man, don’t give me _that_.”

“Give you what?” Cas demanded, orienting himself towards Dean. It was possible that the only thing keeping his teeth from chattering was how tightly he was tensing his jaw. His lips, practically blue at this point, were in a small pout and his nostrils were flaring out like they did whenever he was ready to fight. Dean didn’t want to fight, but he couldn’t help it. It was in his nature.

“You know what. _That_ ,” he shot back.

“I’m just trying to correct my family’s mistakes,” Cas said, apparently moving past their current argument and finishing the one they were having before. “And I’m trying to ensure the people of this town are safe. That _you’re_ safe. If you can’t see that by now—.” He cut himself off with a scoff, and shook his head. He turned back towards the barrier. He breathed out heavily, and Dean saw it puff in front of him.

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to stifle a headache. “I know what you’re trying to do,” he said, trying to force patience, trying to level with him.

“Then why don’t you trust me with the simplest tasks?”

“It’s not that I don’t trust you, man, it’s—.”

“What?”

Dean thought back to that week that Cas got sent off to bible camp. He barely slept. He couldn’t stomach food half the time. He’d been on edge, wondering if he’d ever see Cas again, or if he was even alive, or if he’d ever come home. He couldn’t do that again. Cas really might never come back this time.

“Who d’you think’s trying to keep _you_ safe, Cas? Somebody’s gotta look out for your sorry ass, since you won’t.”

Cas’ eyes flickered downwards. “I just . . .” he said, trailing off. He paused for so long that Dean wasn’t sure he’d ever start up again. But then he did. “I just need this to work, Dean. For you. For _us_.”

Dean blinked, a little taken aback.

“With Michael gone, you and I could—.” He laughed, then, sardonically. “But you don’t want that.”

Didn’t want what? For them to be together? To not have to worry about anyone taking that away from them? Of course, he did. In a perfect world, he’d be able to have it. But things were so far from perfect, and every day was like a smack in the face reminding him of that.

“Who says I don’t?” Dean challenged.

Castiel’s eyes slid over to him, half-hopeful and half-weary. “Do you?”

Dean turned to him, keeping one fist balled up on the top of the barrier. His fingers were going numb, and his cheeks hurt with the bite of the cold. He said, “I dunno, Cas. I wanna get things right. I don’t want it ending like last time. Or—.” _Or at all._ He tossed up his arm, and let it fall down again in an aborted gesture.

He looked down at his boots, at the ends of Cas’ coat swaying slightly in the wind. Sadly, softly, he said, “I want what you want.”

When he glanced back up, Cas was staring at him with big, round eyes, full of raw emotion that he obviously couldn’t fight back.

Dean reached up and put his hand on Cas’ cheek, stroking the skin a little before sliding his palm down to cradle his jaw. Cas was freezing. Dean swiped his thumb over Cas’ lower lips, and Cas parted his lips slightly to suck in a quiet breath.

Quickly, as if he were hoping Dean wouldn’t notice, Cas jolted forward and pressed a chaste kiss to Dean’s mouth. He leaned away just as fast, already seeming full of panic and regret.

Dean chuckled slightly, because he’d wanted to kiss Cas again pretty much every second they were together. He moved his hand down to Cas’ shirt and fisted the fabric, then pulled him back in.

After so long, Dean thought their kisses would be different, but they weren’t. Cas’ lips were sweet and familiar, and Dean was comfortable as he licked his way into Cas’ mouth and slid their tongues together. He brought his other hand up to frame Cas’ face, and Cas’ hands went to Dean’s sides, beneath his leather jacket and flannel, to grip the loose cotton of his shirt. Dean forgot all about the cold.

The kiss broke easily, slowly, and they both pulled away fractionally to breathe in each other’s air. Dean realized Cas was smiling slightly, and the sight of it nearly broke his heart. He didn’t know he could be this happy and this sad all at once.

But mostly, he was just cold. There was a metallic scent on the air, and he thought it might snow.

He grabbed Cas’ wrist at his side and lifted it off to lace their fingers again. “C’mon. We both wanna protect each other so bad, might as well do it where it’s warm.”

Cas nodded, and let himself be pulled inside. 

It was much warmer in the apartment, and Cas’ cheeks and the tip of his nose were bright pink. Dean’s ears and fingers tingled as they thawed out. He shrugged out of his jacket and hung it back up, and tried not to get a giddy rush when Cas did the same things, signifying he was staying.

Dean glanced around the room, but it looked like Sam had gone off to bed.

“What are you watching?” Cas asked gently, pulling Dean’s attention back towards him. Dean’s eyes flickered to the TV, where the same old western movie was playing. From the looks of it, it was a Roy Rogers flick.

“Ah, nothin’,” he said, and walked around the couch to sit back down. Cas hesitated for a second, and then followed. Dean shifted, trying to get comfortable despite the lumps in the cushion and the broken springs. “We could put on something else,” he suggested.

Cas shrugged, indifferent. “Whatever you want is fine.”

Dean stared ahead at the picture, pursing his lips a little in thought. He really didn’t want things to be awkward with Cas after they kissed, but they kind of already were. He leaned back on the couch, and tried to focus on the movie.

“Oh, hey, you hungry?” he asked, suddenly remembering the rest of the food he’d cooked for dinner in the fridge. So, he’d made extra in case Cas decided to come back inside. So, what?

Cas glanced over at him. “I’m alright, thank you.”

Dean fell quiet again, facing forward and tonguing at the canker sore in his mouth that had been bothering him all day. After a while, he noticed Cas rubbing his palms together slowly on his lap, like he was still trying to get the chill out of them.

“Cold?” he asked, and Cas nodded.

No way Dean was about to waste money and turn the heat up any higher, so he excused himself quickly to grab his quilt from off his bed, and returned to the living room. When he sat down, he spread it out over his knees, and offered the other end of it to Cas. Cas shifted a little closer to him so they could share, and they ended up on the center cushion of the couch, shoulders nearly touching and legs kicked up onto the coffee table with the quilt wrapped around them.

Cas settled back into the couch, and glanced up briefly to offer Dean a soft smile of thanks. He looked a hell of a lot more content, and sleepier. Dean could relate to both those things. He had a weird flashback to two Christmases ago, when the two of them fell asleep on Bobby’s couch together watching _March of the Wooden Soldiers_. A pang of sadness went through Dean when he remembered how naked his wrist felt without the watch Cas gave him. He should have never pawned it.

But, then again, it was bought with drug money, so maybe he was right to do it.

Dean moved fractionally closer, and lifted his arm up from under the blanket to go around Cas’ shoulders. Cas stilled momentarily, and Dean thought maybe he’d made a mistake, but then Cas settled and didn’t say a word about it.

Dean tried not to smile when Cas tilted his temple to rest on his chest and promptly fell asleep.

///

Castiel wasn’t certain what had woken him up. In fact, he didn’t even know he’d fallen asleep. But the first thing he registered was Dean’s subtle spiced scent overwhelming his senses as his face was buried into the crook of Dean’s neck. He realized his arms were wrapped around Dean, their chests flush and their legs tangled and kicked over the end of the lumpy couch. Dean’s arm was slung over Castiel’s hip, too, and Castiel thought they must have positioned themselves while asleep, due to the confines of the couch, because he doubted Dean would allow for it while conscious.

The next thing he realized was the humming of his cell phone on the coffee table behind his back. The blue light lit up the otherwise dark room. Castiel had half a mind to let it keep ringing until it stopped, but then Dean grunted in annoyance and shifted, just on the edge of consciousness. And Castiel didn’t want him to wake up fully, not yet, not when they were pressed so close together—warm and content and comfortable, despite the wooden bar sticking into Castiel’s side beneath the cushions.

He extracted himself from Dean halfway to reach behind him, fumbling blindly for his phone. When his hand connected with it, he brought it up and winced at the screen’s brightness. He didn’t even register who was calling before answering it and screwing his eyes closed again to sooth the weak stinging.

“Hello?” he mumbled, and tried to get comfortable again. Dean didn’t stir.

“There you are! I’ve texted you half a dozen times,” Balthazar’s voice came through. He sounded wide-awake, and Castiel wondered what time it must be.

But, at the moment, he was more concerned with Balthazar’s words. His heartbeat kicked up as a dozen inane scenarios flooded his mind, like Michael had stopped by the apartment looking for him. More likely, Bathazar had lost his keys.

“Why?”  
  
“Well,” Balthazar said in a huff, his tone a little less frantic now. “It’s nearly two in the morning and you aren’t home. It’s unlike you. I was concerned.”

Castiel blinked his eyes open just to side-eye the phone. “ _Why_?” He supposed, in the morning, he would appreciate Balthazar’s concern, but right now he just wanted to go back to sleep.

“I just . . . Bloody hell, are you really going to make me say it? I know you’ve been—feeling _blue_ since your break up with our favorite charming lout—.” Castiel glanced up slightly at Dean’s sleeping form, the way his brows were pinched and his jaw was slack. He realized Balthazar was still speaking. “—just wanted to make sure you didn’t drive yourself into the lake or anything dramatic.”

Balthazar always did have a strange way of showing he cared. Castiel never knew how to respond to it.

“I’m . . . fine,” he said, hoping it would suffice.

“Then, where on God’s green earth are you?”

Dean let out a soft hum, the sudden volume of Balthazar’s voice having pulled him out of sleep. Without opening his eyes, he muttered, “Cas, who is it?”

There was a pause on the other end of the line, and Castiel felt the air trap itself in his throat. He waited for Balthazar to say something, praying he hadn’t heard Dean speak. But those hopes were shattered when Balthazar said, “That’s wasn’t . . .? Tell me that wasn’t who I think it was.”

Castiel opened his mouth and let out an unsure noise, willing a lie to form. His mind blanked. He could hear his blood rushing through his ears, drowning out the sound of the refrigerator in the kitchen clicking on with a hum, and he wondered if he’d ever sleep again for the rest of his life. “Um—.”

Balthazar sighed. “Castiel.” He sounded disappointed. “You know I begrudgingly like him. I do. But after everything—.”

“It was no one,” Castiel blundered out, very belatedly. “It was—I’ll be home soon. Goodbye.”

“Castiel, wait—!”

He hung up the phone and clutched it in his fist, willing his heart to stop hammering. Eventually, he dared to look back at Dean, and his hopes were dashed for a second time that night when he saw Dean’s open eyes glistening in the darkness, staring back at him.

“Everything good?”

Castiel sighed heavily. He didn’t want to get up. He sunk his face back into Dean’s chest. “It was Balthazar,” he said, voice muffled.

When Dean answered, Castiel felt the vibrations through his shirt. “So?” He smacked his lips, settling back in. “Wouldda thought you’d want him in on this.”

It wasn’t that. Castiel trusted his friend, and he knew Balthazar was only looking out for his best interest. He didn’t want to see Castiel hurt. But, “I think it’s best to keep this as contained as possible for the time being. The fewer people, the less of a possibility there is of—.”

“All this going ass-backwards?” Dean cut in sleepily.

“Yes.” Besides, there was nothing Balthazar could do to help them at present.

Dean let out a grunt to signify he agreed, and then a few minutes went by where neither of them moved nor spoke. And Castiel’s arms were still around him, and Dean was still holding him, too. And Castiel didn’t want to get up now that he had this again.

“I have to leave.”

Dean’s grunt sounded like he disagreed that time.

“I told him I was going home.”

“You don’t even have a car, genius. How’re you gonna get there? Buses ain’t runnin’ this late.”

He had a point. Castiel let out another breath, considering. Maybe there was a taxi service still open. “I could call a car.”

Dean snorted, sounding more alert again. “Yeah, right, and end up on the five o’clock news?”

Castiel rolled his eyes. “I’m out of options.”

“Just stay here. I’m sure his majesty’ll get over it.” He said it like it wasn’t even an argument. His eyes were even still closed.

“Dean—.”

Dean’s arm pulled Castiel in closer, effectively shutting him up. Without opening his eyes, he nuzzled his nose against Castiel’s, his lips like a magnetic pull. Castiel kissed him back slowly, and it was getting harder by the second to leave.

Stupidly, Castiel let himself get lost in slide of Dean’s lips, and the way his tongue darted out to lip at the seam of Castiel’s mouth. Castiel opened up to him easily, and he realized his fists were clutching the back of Dean’s t-shirt. The low, sleepy sounds being pulled from Dean’s throat sounded like a symphony, and Castiel tried not to think too hard about whether Dean would allow this again. Maybe he would wake up in the morning and regret every moment.

Because he really should leave.

Reluctantly, Castiel pressed his palm against Dean’s shoulder and pushed him back gently. Dean let out a sound that Castiel wouldn’t dare think of as wanting.

“Dean,” he said again. “Go sleep in your own bed.”

Dean gave out a petulant noise, but it looked like he was giving up. Castiel extracted himself from Dean and sat up on the middle cushion. His ass sank into it, and he realized his shoes were off. A glance downward told him they were under the coffee table, and Dean must have set them there after Castiel had fallen asleep. The sudden warmth that had bloomed in Castiel’s chest told him to lay back down again.

But then Dean sat up behind him with a groan and a sigh. He rolled his neck, joints popping loudly from the uncomfortable couch. 

Castiel’s spine wracked with a shiver as he leaned over to put his shoes back on. When he was tying them up, Dean yawned, “Alright, I’ll drive ya.”

Castiel looked over his shoulder, brows knitting together. He wasn’t so sure that was a good idea, especially if he didn’t want Balthazar to know he was with Dean. “You don’t have to do that.”

“Duh, but at least you know I’m not some rapey taxi driver.” Dean picked himself up, teeth chattering a little as he let out little _burr_ noises and made for his boots and jacket near the door. Castiel walked up to him, a mixture of gratitude and guilt warring inside of him.

“Dean, I’m not sure it’s the best idea,” he said. “If someone sees us—.”

“Jesus, Cas. I’ll drop you off a few blocks away, how’s that?” Dean asked, frustrated. He didn’t give Castiel much a choice, though, before opening the front door and walking into the stairwell. Castiel sighed, grabbed his coat off the hook, and followed.

There weren’t very many cars on the road at that time of night. Castiel kept his eyes out, anyway, squinting at every car that passed by, heart rate picking up whenever a red light took too long to change.

But, soon enough, they were going through campus, and Castiel’s building came into view down the road. As promised, Dean pulled to the curb before they reached his block. He oriented himself towards Castiel and said, “You sure you don’t want me to drive the rest of the way?”

Of course, Castiel wanted that. He was tired and it was cold out, and he wanted to hoard every second he could in Dean’s presence. But he told himself Dean’s caution could be applied to this situation: it was better to be safe than sorry. “No. Thank you.”

Dean pressed his lips together, eyes scanning Castiel’s face as he nodded, accepting it. Castiel tried not to feel that magnetic pull again when Dean’s gaze landed on his lips. “Alright, well, maybe we can do something this weekend? You know—fun. Not Evangelist-related,” Dean asked, lifting a shoulder in a shrug. His voice still sounded quiet with sleep, like Castiel had heard so many times in the nighttime darkness.

“I’d like that.”

“Okay.” Dean seemed to consider something, and then quickly leaned across the seat, trying to capture Castiel’s lips. And Castiel wanted to kiss him—more than anything—but his pulse jumped, and he dodged out of the way.

“Dean,” he said firmly, putting up a hand to bar Dean’s way, and glancing around the empty road for signs of someone watching them. Perhaps it was unreasonable, especially since the street was vacant.

Better safe than sorry, he reminded himself.

Dean gave a soft grunt, sounding rejected, and he couldn’t look Castiel in the eye when he returned to the driver’s side and nodded. “Yeah, okay.”

Castiel wanted to apologize, but it would only sound weak. “I’ll see you this weekend.”

Dean only nodded again, and Castiel hesitated for a moment before getting out of the car, into the brisk night air. Dean started driving almost as soon as the door was closed, and Castiel watched him make a K-turn on the street. The red taillights of the Impala bathed the world in a crimson glow. Castiel’s breath fogged around him when he sighed, watching Dean go.

He started walking in the opposite direction, towards his building, fiddling with his keys in his pocket the whole way and warming the sharp sting of cold metal in his palm.

///

That weekend, they decided to hike up to their spot at the lake. It was way too cold to swim, and there was a breeze that kicked off the water, which caused Castiel to continuously pull his coat tighter around his chest. The water level was low and the trees were gray and barren in the overcast day. But it didn’t matter, because he was with Dean.

They weren’t able to be out in public very often anymore, unless it was to a place where they were absolutely certain it wouldn’t get back to Michael. Even then, Castiel’s heart thundered and his palms sweated whenever they left the house. Dean didn’t come to Castiel’s apartment, either, and Castiel could only go to the Winchesters’ home when he felt secure enough to slip away.

He hated all this sneaking around, but it would be worth it in the end. Dean and Sam would be safe, and Michael wouldn’t be able to dictate Castiel’s life anymore. He would be free.

It was a strange concept, like leaping off the edge of a cliff and praying the water beneath was deep enough. He wasn’t exactly sure what he’d do with freedom.

He hoped there would be more days like this, though.

Dean had borrowed two fishing rods from Bobby, and they sat at the edge of the dock with their lines in the water. They hadn’t any bites in the last couple of hours, and Castiel assumed that was because the fish were still in hibernation. But, according to Dean, the point of fishing wasn’t to catch fish.

“Then, what is it?” Castiel had asked, squinting his eyes in confusion because what Dean had said sounded like a crock of shit.

“To relax. You know—just take it all in,” Dean had insisted. Castiel still thought that was counterproductive, but he enjoyed sitting with Dean and watching the gray-green water ripple before them.

“You know, we still never took those jet skis out,” Dean said suddenly, breaking the silence.

Castiel turned towards him, his forehead lining. Had Dean been thinking of that this whole time? “Well, I would suggest we do it this summer, but if all goes according to plan, the house may go into foreclosure. Along with everything in it, including the boat and jet skis.”

It was the least of his worries. He had no real attachment to his childhood home, and he always enjoyed going out on the boat as a kid, but it mostly just sat in the dock these days. But still, his own words formed a knot in his heart, because he realized, not for the first time, he would lose everything if he went through with this plan.

But then Dean gasped, and said, “What? Then, change of plans! Let them keep ruining the town. I wanna tool around on those things at least _once_.” It was then that Castiel realized, if he didn’t go through with it, he’d lose even more. He’d lose Dean. That wasn’t something he was prepared to do again; and even if the plan worked, he wasn’t one-hundred-percent certain Dean would stay with him, anyway, not even for jet skis.

He smiled softly. “I promise to let you go on a joy ride before the bank claims them as collateral,” he joked.

“All I’m asking.”

Another gust of wind whistled over the lake and combed through Castiel’s hair. His spine rocked with the sharp, stinging goose bumps it left on his skin through his clothes. He frowned, but he didn’t want to leave so soon.

“You cold?” Dean asked, as if it weren’t obvious. He was feeling the effects of the chill, too, Castiel was certain. His cheeks were pink, and the tips of his semi-pointed ears were bright red. His fist was clenching his fishing rod a little too tightly, knuckles white under transparent skin.

“I can’t feel my nose,” Castiel told him.

Dean chuckled brightly at that, the skin around his eyes crinkling. His eyes were a striking green against the cloudy air. That was the last thing Castiel thought before Dean leaned in and pressed his lips to the tip of Castiel’s nose. His mouth felt warm. Dean always seemed to give off his own heat.

“I can’t feel my lips, either,” Castiel said.

Dean’s smile grew as he hovered in close and tilted his head to the side. “Oh, yeah?” he laughed, and pecked Castiel’s lips. “What about your cheek?” That received a kiss, too.

Castiel blushed slightly at the tenderness of it, but he could blame that on the cold.

He turned his head to the side to capture Dean’s lips, and Dean kissed him back willingly. Castiel closed his eyes into it, getting lost in the push and pull of Dean’s mouth against his. In the tiny hums Dean gave off that vibrated on Castiel’s teeth. In the way he would lean in, and then lean out again so Castiel would have to follow him. And Castiel _would_ follow him. Every time.

He’d missed this, and sometimes he still thought he’d had a break with reality, and that Dean wasn’t his anymore after all. Not that Dean _was_ his at the moment. At least, Castiel didn’t think so. Dean still looked at him with a guarded expression, and Castiel still found himself second-guessing his every word—every move—just to stay in Dean’s good graces.

He didn’t know if that would ever go away. After all, Mary Winchester was still dead. Jessica Moore was dead. Ash was dead. Castiel’s family was still the reason. None of those things would change. But he hoped there would be a time where Dean could trust him fully again. Until then, just being near him, getting to kiss him, was enough. Even if Castiel wasn’t allowed to love him.

He did, anyway.

When the kiss broke, Castiel tipped his forehead against Dean’s and breathed him in. He couldn’t stop grinning, his cheeks stretched and aching from it.

“What’s the joke?” Dean asked, already sounding amused.

Castiel closed his eyes, just savoring this quiet moment, just the two of them, where the world and all its troubles were held at bay. “You make me very happy,” he said.

He heard Dean’s breath catch, and felt him go rigid. Castiel’s eyes flew open, and he immediately got a sinking feeling that he’d said something wrong.

When Dean pulled away from him, he was sure of it.

Dean didn’t say anything, but he turned back to the lake and picked up his rod again. He stared straight, jaw locked and shoulders hunched into his body, eyed hard and unblinking.

“Dean,” Castiel begged, barely able to get it out over the lump in his throat. He lifted his hand up, meaning to reach for him, but then thought better of it. He sighed, and pressed his teeth together to keep his emotions in check as he glanced out at the lake.

Should he apologize? He didn’t even know what he’d done.

“Look, it’s nothing, okay?” Dean said, voice gruff, and it was enough to tell Castiel that is wasn’t _nothing_. “Just forget it.” Castiel watched him as Dean reeled his line back in. “It’s getting cold. We should get outta here.”

Castiel didn’t want to leave yet. It was imperative that he made Dean stay, too. He feared that, if he allowed Dean to walk away, the fractures between them would break apart, rendering them unrepairable. But he didn’t know what to say, and Dean was on his feet, collecting the fishing rods and turning towards the tree line. He paced down the rickety dock, and Castiel felt his footfalls in his bones.

“Dean, wait,” he said, quickly picking himself up off the dock.

It made Dean stop walking, at least, but it took him a long time to turn around to face Castiel; and, when he did, his expression was carefully guarded.

Castiel let out a breath, not really knowing what to do now that he had Dean’s attention. The only thing he knew for certain was this: “I can’t keep doing this.”

Dean’s throat rippled, some of those barriers already falling down. “Doing _what_?” he demanded.

Tiptoeing around. Watching his every move. Wondering how he’d set Dean off.

“I don’t know the rules, Dean,” he said, not meaning to sound angry. Perhaps it was easier than sounding vulnerable. “You’ve apparently created an entire list, but you haven’t shared it with me. How am I expected to act around you if you won’t tell me?”

Dean erupted. “Rules are simple, Cas! Don’t say shit like _that_.”

“Like what?”

“Like _that_! I make you happy? Really?”

Was it so hard to believe? Castiel narrowed his eyes and shook his head in disbelief. “But it’s true, Dean. I love you.”

Dean let out an exasperated breath and threw his arms up. “Don’t _say_ that! That’s not—.” He grunted, and clapped the hand that wasn’t holding the two rods to cover his eyes. He looked like he was trying to arrange his thoughts.

After a second, he dropped his hand, and his eyes were almost pleading as he said, “I’m not there again yet. So, just drop it.” He began to turn again, attempting to end the conversation.

“No,” Castiel said firmly, stopping him. “Not until you tell me why.”

Dean puckered his lips, then ran his tongue over his teeth. He shook his head down at the ground like he couldn’t believe they were talking about this. If Castiel were asked, he’d say this conversation was overdue.

He tried to be patient, but he stomped up closer to Dean when he didn’t get a reply. “Dean!”

“I don’t know, Cas!” he shouted, his voice bouncing off the water, and everything else seemed to fall silent. His voice was almost cracking as he went on, “I don’t know if this plan’s gonna work—or if you’re gonna bail again afterwards if it does!”

Of course, Castiel wouldn’t. Why would he? As much as he wanted to do what was right for the people of the town, he wanted to be with Dean more. “If I—? I’m doing this _for_ you.”

“Yeah, you keep saying that,” Dean spat back, his voice a little lower but no less frustrated.

Castiel stared at him hard, trying to read him. It was more than that. There was something Dean wasn’t saying.

He was scared.

“What are you afraid of?” Castiel asked him. He stepped even closer, tilting his head to the side as he kept his eyes fixed on the swirling peridot of Dean’s irises. “That this won’t work out, or that it will?”

Because, if it did—if they could be together in the end—Dean would have to live with that. Nothing would change. His mother would be dead, as would everyone else. Castiel’s family would still be responsible for ruining countless people’s lives. And perhaps, in some way, Castiel would always serve as a reminder of those things to Dean. It would cause Dean grief and strife and guilt, even if he decided to be with Castiel. Even if he loved him.

Dean looked back, his gaze challenging. But he didn’t say anything. It was enough for Castiel to know he was right.

Castiel dropped his shoulders. He didn’t want to fight. “Until you figure that out,” he promised, “I’ll be here. Waiting.”

A moment went by. Then, “And if I never figure it out?”

Castiel shot him a weary look. “Then, I’ll still be here.”

Dean took in an unsteady breath. He stepped in, filling the rest of the space between them, and brought up his hand to smooth out the wrinkles between Castiel's eyes, and Castiel let his forehead go slack. It moved down to cradle Castiel’s cheek. He stroked the bone gently with the pad of his thumb. Castiel leaned his head into his palm.

“If it makes you feel any better, I don’t know what the rules are, either,” he said, his voice lighter than before as he went for humor, but it was still slightly strained. “I’m kinda just half-assing it as I go.”

Castiel smiled. “It is good to know I’m not alone.”

Dean dipped forward and kissed him, and Castiel thought he might get whiplash from all the turns this conversation had taken, but that didn’t matter so much. He and Dean had never been very good with rules, anyway.


	21. Chapter 21

Dean was pretty stoked that making out was on the table again, even if it usually left him wanting more. He didn’t want to screw things up by moving too quickly, but he figured it was okay if he and Cas got a little handsy during their make out sessions.

It was midday on the first week of March, and Cas had come over in between his classes to plan out the fair, but they ended up not doing that. They were in Dean’s bed instead, Dean stretched out on top of him, his hips held between Cas’ bent knees, as they kissed roughly. Dean’s chin was scratched up and raw from Cas’ stubble, and his scalp hurt a little bit from Cas tugging on his hair. Every time Cas moaned, Dean could feel the vibrations from it in his body, and he was already at half-mast in his jeans.

Underneath him, Cas shifted a little, moving his hips up to press their groins together. Dean felt the hard length of him, and gasped slightly at the feeling of their erections dragging together. It was torture, and he wanted so badly to grind down into Cas. Cas must have felt it, too, because he broke away with a strangled groan. And that was just more of a turn on.

Dean dipped his face into the crook of Cas’ neck, nipping at the skin there and breathing in the smell of sweat and sex. Cas’ fist tightened in Dean’s hair, and his other hand roughed down his body until it settled on Dean’s ass. He dug his fingers into the seat of Dean’s jeans. He was panting into Dean’s ear, his nose pressing into Dean’s hairline.

In the last few weeks, this hadn’t been the first time making out gave Dean the urge to rip Cas’ clothes off so they could fuck properly; but he didn’t think either of them were ready for that. For now, he satisfied himself by the feeling of Cas’ body under his, and the taste of his skin and lips, and listening to the short sounds he made as he was lost to pleasure.

“Dean—,” Cas growled out, and the rough sound of his voice dragged a groan out of Dean’s throat.

Cas yanked on his hair, pulling his face back up so they could lock eyes. Cas’ pupils were blown out, and his mouth was open distractedly. His lips were bruised and red. His cheeks were flushed pink, and he looked so damn beautiful. “Fuck,” Dean breathed out, not knowing how else to express how perfect Cas was. He crashed their lips together again, and they swallowed their moans down each other’s throats.

Then Cas made an urgent humming sound, like he’d just remembered something. He pulled away while sucking in a breath of air, despite Dean’s protest. He turned his head slightly to look up at the clock on the nightstand. “Shit,” he hissed, breaths still coming out labored. He let his head fall back against the pillow. “My class started ten minutes ago.”

Dean chuckled, and it sounded low and dry with how cracked his throat was. He grinned down at Cas. “Guess you’re skipping it.” He kissed Cas chastely, but even so, Cas’ eyes darkened marginally.

Dean kind of wanted to make a game out of whether or not he could turn Cas on again. He ducked down and deepened the kiss, and Cas started making some seriously happy noises as he participated. Dean felt happy, too—airy and light. He wondered if it might be okay to actually have sex.

Cas smiled against him, a laugh escaping him as he pushed Dean off his lips. “Dean,” he scolded, his voice still gritty. “I think two hours is enough for one afternoon, don’t you?”

Dean beamed back and shook his head. “Not even close, pal.”

He got his way, because he always got his way—because Cas was a horn-dog, even though he pretended not to be. They started kissing again, until Dean’s phone began to ring.

Dean pulled away with a grunt, and a big part of him wanted to let it go to voicemail. He glared over at his phone rattling around on the floorboards as it vibrated and played the opening riff of _Back in Black_. He reached over for it, and saw Charlie’s name on the ID.

She might have had something for them.

He answered and put it on speaker. “Charlie,” he said, and he hadn’t realized how rough his voice had been until that moment.

“Hey,” her sunny voice came through over the line. “Did I wake you up or something?”

Dean looked down at Cas, who raised a brow at him. Dean tried to ignore the way that always made the blood rush straight down to his dick.

“No.” He licked his lips, and looked at the phone where he’d placed it on the bed next to them. “What’s up?”

She took in a deep breath, which usually meant she was about to launch into some long-winded story. She said, “Right. So, I was up all night for the past few nights—you totally owe me a Starbucks gift card, by the way—trying to get into Evangelist’s payroll. There were a couple layers of security I hadn’t been expecting. It was like—picture Helm’s Deep but virtual.”

“Third Age Helm’s Deep or _Two Towers_ Helm’s Deep?” he asked.

“Third Age, all the way,” she clarified.

Cas’ hands stroked up and down Dean’s sides, reminding Dean to get on with it already because he had other things that needed his attention.

“Anyway, me and Kevin—oh, Kevin’s in this now, too. I recruited him. So, me and Kevin managed to get in, and we got a list of names. We ran a crosscheck against the employee database, but there were a few that didn’t match. Kevin hacked into the police arrested records, and we found some crossovers, so at least three of the people on the list are known criminals. No idea about the other ones, but it seems kinda shady, if you ask me.”

Dean chewed on his lower lip in thought. “Yeah, that is shady.”

“I may have a way of finding out for sure if the people on that list are being paid to move drugs,” Cas offered.

“Cas? I didn’t know you were there,” Charlie said, her voice getting all squeaky like it did when she was excited. “You should have said something earlier!”

“Yeah, well, he’s kinda pinned down right now,” Dean said, shooting Cas a slanted smirk.

Cas looked him dead in the eyes as he said, his voice going low and raspy, “Yes, I am. But, don’t worry, Charlie. Dean’s on top of it.” He pitched his hips up to knock against Dean’s groin, and Dean had to stifle a surprised gasp, because holy fuck.

There was silence on the other end of the line for a second, and then Charlie let out an unsure sound. “Are . . . you guys having sex? Because I could totally call back before things get—um, X-rated?”

“No!” Dean told her before the rumor mill got started that he and Cas were officially back together.

At the same time, Cas said in a much lower, somber voice, “No.”

He sounded so damn sad about it, and it caused a ribbon of guilt to wrap around Dean’s insides. He looked back at the phone to distract himself. “Charlie, just send us the names. We’ll fill you in on stage two when we got a plan.”

“Aye-aye, Captain,” she said, and he could picture her saluting. “Bye, Cas!”

“Goodbye, Charlie.”

Dean hung up the phone, and then turned his attention back on Cas. “What’re you thinking?”

Cas pressed his lips together and looked up and to the side in thought. “You’re not going to like it.”

Dean really didn’t want to hear it, then, but they were already in such a shitstorm of a situation. What was a little more crap? “Awesome. What is it?”

Cas looked back at him steadily. “Meg.”

Yeah, Dean definitely didn’t like it.

“Cas, what are the rules? Don’t say that name while I’m on top of you.”

Cas ignored him. “Her father’s ledger. I’ve seen it. If the names match up to the ones on Charlie’s list, we’ll have evidence that they work for Azazel.”

Dean’s brows shot up. “Great, and how do you expect to get this _evidence_? Just knock on their door and ask, ‘Hey, we’re trying to bring down the Tyrell Corporation. Mind if we borrow your books?’”

“I don’t know what that means,” Cas said, probably just to get under Dean’s skin. “And, no, I’m not saying we ask Azazel. But we can ask Meg.”

Dean barked out a laugh. “She’s the damn next generation of the cartel! No way she’ll help us!”

“Dean,” Cas said sharply, and Dean shut up. “ _I’ll_ ask her. I think she’ll help. Please, trust me.”

Dean stared down at him, and none of this sat right with him. He didn’t trust Meg, but he knew she trusted Cas. Maybe he could convince her. He just didn’t want to know what it would actually take to convince her.

“Alright, fine,” he relented. “But I don’t like it. Bitch’ll probably use this situation to her advantage.”

When he glanced back down, Cas was clearly holding back a smile. His jaw worked from side to side like he was considering something. “What?” Dean asked, not getting the joke.

“Do I sense hints of jealousy?”

Dean rolled his eyes. “No way!” Cas could do whatever he wanted. They weren’t in a relationship anymore. Cas could fuck her to get the information, for all he cared. It wasn’t any of Dean’s business. He just . . . kind of hoped it didn’t come to that.

He said, “Go ahead—ask her! You got my full support. I know how persuasive you can be.”

Cas was still looking up at him like the smuggest bastard in the world.

Just to get him to stop, Dean said, “But I’m talkin’ to Crowley. He’s got more reason than she does to wanna screw over your brothers.”

“And you believe he won’t screw _us_ over?”

Probably, but at least they’d be getting something out of the deal. He couldn’t say the same for Meg. “Crowley’s a dick, but he ain’t stupid. You said it yourself, he’s got something to gain here. He’ll play ball.”

Cas nodded. “Alright. You speak to Crowley, and I’ll talk to Meg.”

Dean tried not to grumble when he said, “Fine.” 

Then, in a whirlwind, Cas flipped them over so Dean was underneath him. He leaned in close, that smug look back in his eyes, their lips brushing as he said, “I promise not to be too persuasive.”

Maybe it was the rush of blood still settling in his head from being flipped, but he heard himself say, “Yeah, you better not.” And before either of them could really figure out the meaning of that, he wrapped his fingers around the back of Cas’ neck and brought him back in.

///

Castiel threw another punch, the padded glove on his hand absorbing the shock against the bag. All around him, he heard the muffled clapping sounds of his classmates pounding against their own bags, and they were mixed with panting breaths and grunts of exertion. He had a thin layer of sweat sticking to his skin at that point, some of it collecting in his hair. But he mostly tuned all of it out. His focus was elsewhere as he reeled his arm back again.

On Michael. Raphael. His father. Alastair.

Dean.

Perhaps that last one wasn’t fair—strictly. He wasn’t angry with Dean, just frustrated. Physically. They’d been making progress in reestablishing their relationship; or, at least, he thought they were. He still found himself deferring to Dean’s judgment and timetables on that matter. And, as much as he wanted to physically be with Dean—in a way that went beyond kissing, no matter how much he enjoyed that—he was waiting for Dean to give him some kind of sign that it would be appropriate. But, weeks passed, and nothing happened; and perhaps neither of them were ready to take that step again just yet.

That was fine. Castiel thought maybe it was for the best, anyway. He loved Dean, but he wasn’t supposed to. Dean needed time to love him back, if that ever happened. Castiel was willing to give Dean as much time as he needed.

But the fact remained that he could still feel Dean’s hands and lips on him, and he had no idea how people suppressed those urges. He thought he’d be a pro at that by now when it came to Dean, but it seemed he still needed to find a way to get those energies out somehow.

Hitting things was a poor substitute, but at least it tired him out.

He hit the bag harder.

“Good form, Castiel,” the trainer teaching his current class said as she walked around him, knocking him out of his thoughts. “Remember to position your elbows.”

He pressed his lips together, and nodded at her to show he understood. He was about to try again when someone on the other side of the studio’s window leading out to the rest of the gym caught his eye.

Meg was standing there, arms folded casually over her exercise tank top as she watched him. Stomach sinking, he wondered how long she’d been standing there. He glanced up at the analogue clock in the corner of the room. It was five minutes past the time they’d planned on meeting.

Earlier that day, he’d texted her and asked if they could talk. It took her a few hours to respond, and he’d honestly given up hope that she would. He hated to be persistent, but he didn’t have a choice, and he’d resolved to call her a fraction of a second before her responding text flashed on his phone screen.

She agreed to meet him after she was done at the gym that night, and he supposed she wasn’t trying to go out of his way for him; but he hadn’t expected her to. After all, it had been a few months since they'd last spoken. That was mostly his doing. He just didn’t have the time anymore.

He glanced over at his trainer, and excused himself quickly before walking to the side of the studio to collect his gym bag. He tore off his gloves and shoved them inside, not bothering to zip the top back up as he made for the door as fast as he could without disrupting class. The trainer only frowned at him briefly before returning to the rest of the class. It would let out in ten minutes, anyway.

“Meg,” he said as he closed the door behind him. She turned to face him, arms still folded, brow quirking. “Thank you for meeting me.”

“Sure,” she said. “Gotta say, I kinda thought you fell off the face of the earth. What’s the matter, Clarence. We’re not friends anymore?” She was teasing him, but it still made him feel guilty.

He looked off to the side, to the students moving from machine to machine, the usual sounds of weights clanging mixing with the music on the overhead speakers. The floor was crowded, and most people were wearing headphones, probably not paying them the least bit of attention, but he still felt exposed.

“Sorry. I, um—,” he told her, not really knowing what to say. “I’ve been—.”

“You’re back with Dean, huh?”

His eyes snapped back to her with alarm, and she remained cool and collected.

“Kinda figured.” She shrugged. “It’s cool. I’ve been pretty busy, too. But I’m guessing you know all about my new job.”

He tried not to feel awkward. “Yes. But . . . I’m not supposed to.”

At last, her expression shifted into surprise. “Wait, for real? Then how—?”

“Partly thanks to you,” he said without going into much detail. He took another sweeping glance around, making sure no one was watching them, before lightly grabbing her elbow and steering her towards the corner. She seemed a little taken aback by that at first, but she followed him easily. “That’s why I asked to speak with you.”

“With me? Shouldn’t you be talking to your brothers?” she asked as they settled along the wall, and she took a step back to release herself from his hold. He let his hand drop back to his side, his other wrapping around the strap of his duffel.

“No. There are other things—things you don’t know. Things my family has done,” he told her, and that appeared to catch her interest. He licked his lips in thought, wondering how much he should tell her and what to keep vague. He decided to say, “People have gotten hurt, or worse. Sam and Dean’s mother among them. And . . . Dean, almost.”

She shook her head, brows scrunching. “Okay, and what do you want me to do about that?”

Dean’s voice suddenly popped into his head, telling him that they couldn’t trust Meg. Castiel tried to push it away. He’d promised Dean she would help him, but now, standing in front of her, he wasn’t so certain.

He took in a breath. “Those ledgers your father keeps of his drug dealers. Do you still have access to them?”

She still appeared perplexed, and then realization dawned on her face. A kind of smile cracked her lips, and she scoffed out a laugh. “You’re not really asking me to go behind my dad’s back, are you?”

“It’s a lot to ask, I know,” he told her. “But I have to ask it.”

She scoffed again, this time more derisive. She looked off, staring angrily, and shook her head. “Castiel, if you know what your brothers are hiding, you know my name’s on those ledgers. And my brother’s. Why the hell would I sell out my family for the _Winchesters_?” She spat the name out as if it were toxic.

“You won’t be,” he promised. “And it’s not for them—well, it _is_ , but it’s for me, too.” She let out another laugh, as it that meant nothing, and perhaps it did now. He bit down his frustration, and tried again. “I will protect you, Meg. I promise. I’ll exclude your name from ledger, and your brother’s. The police will never know.”

“The police,” she echoed, voice dripping with irritation. “That’s not really gonna help my dad, is it?”

He thinned his lips apologetically, and tried to push the emotion into his eyes. “I’m sorry. Omitting your father’s culpability will be impossible.” Azazel was key. The evidence would point to him, but there was still a chance for Meg. Because she didn’t want this—not really. He remembered before, when he’d first met her, her outrage at her father. It went beyond Azazel not trusting her. She knew this was wrong.

They were both wrapped up in their families’ affairs. “Meg, you don’t have to go down the path your father’s laid out for you.”

She shrugged down at the floor, as though apathetic. “What if I’m good at it?”

He shook his head in sympathy.

“Sorry, Castiel,” she said, waving him away as she turned. “Unlike you, Dean Winchester tells me to jump, I don't say _how high_. Ask somebody else.”

He grabbed her by the arm on reflex, his pulse jumping in fear that he’d never be able to convince her if she walked away. “There is no one else.”

She jerked out of his hold, eyes hard. “So, what, I'm just your only option?”

“Yes—No.” He let out a breath, not really knowing how to make her change her mind. All he could do was appeal to her with, “I need your help, Meg. I know I have no right to ask for it, but you have always been there—even when no one else was. Please. Our families have hurt people. Help me make it right, for both of us.”

She blinked at him, the hard edges melting away from her the longer she stood there. A few feet behind them, the door to the studio opened, and the students from the class filtered out. He kept his eyes on her, praying she’d say yes.

After what felt like an eternity, she nodded, albeit reluctantly. “Fine.”

He felt himself relax.

“But, you better mean it, Castiel. Leave me out of this.”

He nodded. “I promise.”

“Whatever,” she muttered. And then, “I’ll make copies of the ledger and text you when I have them. Might take a few days.”

“Of course.” He hoped that wouldn’t give her time to rethink this. For good measure, he said, “Thank you, Meg.”

“I’m out of here,” she said, putting up her walls again as she shoved past him.

He supposed he should have felt more grateful. He was, but his gut also turned over with something he chalked up to remorse. Pointedly, he stopped himself from wishing things could have been different in his friendship with Meg. He turned his thoughts instead, wondering if Dean had any success with Crowley.

///

Dean figured it would be easier to catch Crowley off guard. He showed up at his apartment unannounced, and pounded on the door continuously until he heard Crowley shouting at him from the other side. He stepped back when he saw a shadow under the crack in the door and heard the lock click open.

“Dean,” Crowley said once they were face-to-face. He was dressed in his usual black suit and polished shoes, but his tie was undone and hanging from around his neck, so Dean figured he must have just gotten in. “Out of all the people in the world, I didn’t expect to find you darkening my doorway.”

“We gotta talk,” Dean told him, skipping right over the theatrics.

Crowley’s expression remained impassive. “Do we? Whatever would I have to discuss with you? It’s not like you’re under my employ anymore. Except, of course, if you’ve come to grovel for your job back.”

Dean pulled a face. “What? No. Listen—I know you talked to Cas. He— _we_ wanna make a deal. Think you might be interested?”

For a second, it looked like Crowley might invite him in. His brow quirked slightly, showing that he was listening. But then he pressed his lips together into a line. “Sorry. If Castiel Novak wants to continue our conversation, it’ll have to be in person. I don’t deal with the hired help.”

He was about to close the door, and Dean instinctively took a step forward. “He didn’t _hire_ me, okay? We’re—partners, I guess. I dunno. He’s my . . . We’re—well, we _were_ —.”

Crowley appeared to be growing impatient.

“Point is, I’m who you got. Wanna hear what I have to say before you slam the door in my face?”

Crowley sighed in a put upon way. “Fine,” he agreed, stepping to the side to let Dean in. “Get in. I won’t discuss a coup d’état in the hallway.”

Dean stepped into the apartment, which was just as swanky and spotless as is was the last time he was there. He wondered briefly if Crowley had a whole team of maids cleaning and making sure nothing was ever out of place; but the apartment looked like fresh snow, completely devoid of human contact. He kind of felt like he was in Ikea—but for rich people. Do rich people go to Ikea?

Now, he wanted meatballs.

“ _Ahem_ ,” Crowley said from behind him, knocking Dean out of his thoughts. “Care to move this along?” He held out a hand towards the living room, and Dean felt pretty awkward as he moved inside and sat down on the black leather sofa. He was pretty out of place, and he looked down at his mud-caked boots on the rug that probably cost a year’s worth of his rent. But hey, if Crowley was so loaded, chances were he could afford a vacuum, so Dean wasn’t too apologetic.

“Now, what is this fascinating proposition you have for me?” Crowley asked as he walked over to an antique cabinet over by the window, where downtown was lit up against the darkening sky. He plucked two rocks glasses from the tray on top and poured a finger of scotch into each.

“Cas wants out of the family business,” Dean told him, figuring he’d cut to the chase.

Crowley was reaching over the glass coffee table to hand Dean his drink, and he paused midway. When he recovered, he said, “Does he?”

Dean took the glass from him. He held it between his knees, and glanced down into the amber liquor that was just a couple shades paler than he was used to in his whiskey. “Uh, yeah. That’s what we’re trying to do, bring down the company. We’re trying to collect enough evidence to bring to the cops.”

Crowley settled into the modern armchair next to the couch. He crossed one leg over his knee in front of him and spread out his arms on the armrests, whiskey held loosely in one hand, looking for all the world like he was lounging on a throne. “Why would he want to do that?”

“Because his family’s killed people.”

Crowley shrugged. “People die all the time,” he said, and took a sip of his drink.

Dean’s face hardened, even though he knew Crowley was only talking tough. “Not like this.” He took a sip, too. It tasted like glass. Dean preferred bourbon.

Crowley let out a sardonic huff. “And you mean to tell me this Novak has a conscience? The sins of the father and all that lark?”

“That so hard to believe?”

“It’d be a first. Hell, even Lucifer was only in it for himself.”

Dean sighed impatiently. “You want in or not?”

“What? You expect me—,” he held a lofty finger to his chest before turning it on Dean, “to help you. And then what? I’m out of a job.”

Dean snorted. “Yeah, right, Crowley. I’ve been your errand boy, remember? I know how many dealers you got around town. You got enough resources to keep going.”

“Ah, yes, but not if you cut me off from my product,” he countered.

Dean didn’t buy that for a second. “Like you don’t have contacts.”

Crowley hummed and leaned back again. “That, I do. But why on earth would Novak come to me and not his whore of a girlfriend?”

Dean tensed, and tried not to think about the fact that Cas was with Meg right now, if everything went according to plan.

“Who cares? Think of this as a promotion. You could be in charge of the drugs, the poker games, anything else your stubby little fingers are in, I dunno. You got the job, not her.” Dean took another sip to stave off his agitation. Still tasted like glass. He frowned down at the drink, and realized Crowley had been silent for too long.

When he glanced up again, Crowley was staring into the middle distance, idly running his finger along the rim of his glass as he considered something. “Interesting,” he said after a minute.

Dean shook his head. “What is?”

“ _He_ didn’t come to me. You did.”

Dean rolled his eyes.

“I’m flattered, really,” Crowley droned as he brought his glass to his lips.

“I will leave right now.”

“Oh, don’t get your panties in a twist.” Crowley stood up, and went back over to the cabinet. Dean thought he might fill up his drink again, but he set it on top with a clink and opened the door beneath. He pulled out a large leather book, and brought it over to the coffee table. He offered it to Dean.

“What is it?” Dean asked, and took it from Crowley. He set it down on the table and flipped open to the first page. It was a list of names and addresses, even some phone numbers.

“Call them my suppliers,” Crowley said, sitting back down on his chair. “That book there is filled with everyone I’ve done business with—every dealer, every supplier, every one of Azazel’s pharmacists that get a cut of the money, and then some.”

Dean blinked down at the pages. If they had this, they didn’t even need Meg. “Great!” he said. “Hell, this is fan-fuckin’-tastic.”

Crowley held up a finger. “Not so fast,” he said, and leaned in to slide the book over to himself. He closed it with a sense of finality. “I’m happy to hand this over—with a few missing pages, of course. I have to protect my dealers. You understand. But the rest is yours. _Granted_ , I’m able to walk away from all this without a scratch.”

Dean really didn’t know what Crowley expected from him. He wasn’t a lawyer, or a cop. He shrugged out his hands. “How am I supposed to do that?”

“Not you, you simple-minded buffoon,” Crowley told him plainly, and Dean didn’t know if he was more offended by the insult itself or the casual tone in which it was spoken. “That’s a little out of your reach, don’t you agree? But you tell your copper friend that I will sing like a canary the moment she and my very adept team of lawyers reach the terms of my immunity.”

Dean eyed him skeptically. He was probably just trying to cover his own ass if things went south, but Dean still felt slimy making this deal. “You mean it?” he asked, even if he felt stupid immediately after.

Crowley shot him a look, but humored him. “Cross my heart,” he said, drawing an X on his chest. “So, Novak keeps his nose out of my affairs; I keep my promises. Deal?”

It was good enough for Dean, and it’d be more than good enough for Cas. “Trust me, he wants nothing to do with it once this is over.” He hauled himself up from the couch, figuring they were done there. Crowley stood up, too.

“Then, I look forward to a lucrative future. And remember, Dean—,” he held out his hand for Dean to shake. “You’re welcome to get in on the ground floor.”

Maybe he’d finally learned from his mistakes, but that wasn’t even tempting anymore, no matter how much extra cash he could make. “I’m good,” he said, and reluctantly shook Crowley’s hand to seal the deal.

“Shame,” Crowley said, even though he didn’t look very disappointed. “Regardless, I imagine I’ll see you very soon.”

 _Too soon_ , Dean didn’t say before he left, and headed straight for the elevators.

He was already pulling out his phone and tapping on Cas’ number as he walked through the lobby. Cas picked up on the second ring with, “Dean,” and Dean realized there’d been a knot in his stomach that was suddenly loosening. It was a little easier to breathe knowing that Cas wasn’t still with Meg.

“Hey,” Dean said, wondering if his relief showed in his voice. “I’m leaving Crowley’s now. He’s game.”

Over the line, Cas let out a breath. “Good,” he said as Dean pushed through the glass doors into the nipping night air. The tip of his nose instantly chilled, and he shoved his free hand into his jacket pocket to fiddle with his car keys. “So, he’ll give us information?”

“Not exactly.” The Impala was parked down the block, and Dean started in that direction.

“I don’t understand.”

“He has some stuff. He showed me this contact book or whatever—with people he deals with in the pharma lab, I think,” Dean explained. “He said he’ll hand over what he’s got to the cops, but he wants immunity.”

“I assumed as much.”

“Yeah, and we were right. He took the bait. He’s lookin’ to fill the vacancy your family’s gonna leave behind.”

Another breath, this one heavier. “This is still the right decision.”

Dean guessed it was, all things considered. People would always find a way to buy and sell drugs. They were never going to get them off the street, and that really wasn’t their job. As long as the Novaks weren’t killing people for it, they’d be no worse off than any other town in America. Things would just be business as usual.

The overhead streetlight was casting an orange glare on the Impala’s metal. Dean folded his fingers over his keys and brought them out as he crossed to the driver’s side. “What about Meg? You talk to her?”

“Yes,” Cas said, and Dean almost didn’t want to know. “She’ll help us.”

Dean paused, the key in the lock. “And you think she’s telling the truth?”

“I do.”

Dean hoped he was right. He slid behind the wheel of the car and turned over the engine. “Guess we’ll find ou—.” Something across the street caught Dean’s eye. An old, crappy, beat up Taurus made whining sounds as its engine sputtered into life. It was in a dark patch, away from any streetlamp’s glow, but Dean could still see the mismatched color of the side door. He could smell the puffs of black smoke coughing out of the tailpipe. The car pulled away from the curb and drove in the opposite direction from where Dean was headed.

Dean blinked, and realized his heart had seized up. His chest felt way too tight. His hand was clutching his phone to his ear like he was holding on for dear life. Some sweeping nausea overcame him, making it feel like he was outside of his body. He could smell smoke.

“Dean? Dean, are you still there? Dean!” Cas’ voice filtered back into his conscious, his tone becoming more frantic with each word.

Dean shook his head, and breathed. “No, yeah—I’m. I’m here,” he said, doing his best to sound calm. Alastair was just trying to scare him, and it fucking worked, but it didn’t seem like he was going to make a move tonight. At least, Dean didn’t think so. He glanced over his shoulder to where Alastair had driven off, just to make sure he was really gone.

He’d take the long way home, just so he knew he wasn’t being followed, but Dean didn’t think Alastair would come for him that night. He just wanted Dean to know that he was still out there, and Dean was still top of his hit list.

“Is everything alright?” Cas asked, sounding a little calmer now.

“Yeah, I’m good,” Dean lied. “Just . . . thought I saw something.” He almost wanted to ask Cas to come over, but if Alastair did try anything, he didn’t want Cas getting hurt—or worse—because of him. And maybe Sam could stay over Eileen’s tonight. That way, he’d be safe.

Just in case Dean was wrong about Alastair.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” Dean told Cas.

“Okay, Dean. Goodnight.”

Dean didn’t want to hang up. “’Night.”

He got the urge to follow that up. To bite the bullet. To say it—to just _say it_. To just tell Cas he loved him, in case he didn’t get to again.

He hung up the phone, and placed both hands on the wheel, clutching hard and breathing heavy. He glanced in the rearview, and found the street empty all but for the vacant cars parked along the sidewalks.

He’d take the long way home.

The _very_ long way.

The sun was rising by the time Dean finally pulled into his building’s parking lot. He hadn’t seen Alastair again all night.

///

Later in the week, Dean had gotten wind of a party one of the juniors was throwing on their farm outside of town while their parents were away. When he’d told Castiel about it, he said they should go, and that it was important for them to “cut loose” from time to time instead of focusing solely on bringing down Evangelist.

Castiel had to admit, he had a point. He didn’t want their relationship to be rebuilt on his family’s ruination. They needed some time for themselves, as well. Such as more dinners or movie dates, or the like. However, a party was very public, and he thought it was an unnecessary risk. If word got back to Michael that they were seen together, they’d be right back where they started.

But Dean insisted. He said they’d arrive separately, and they’d hang out with different people at first. Then, once midnight rolled around, they could meet up on the dance floor, which would probably be packed. No one would notice them or know the difference.

It made Castiel’s nerve endings come alight; but, when he arrived, he was mostly happy that Dean had talked him into it.

He came alone in a taxi, and followed the sound of laughter and music around the dark two-story farmhouse near the side of the road. It was still cold out, especially at night, but there were two large bonfires on different parts of the field where masses of people crowded together to talk, pass a bottle of liquor between them, make out, or smoke. There was a barn, a looming silo towering over it, set a little ways back from one of the fire pits, and loud house music was blasting from inside. He assumed that’s where he’d meet Dean later.

But it was still early, so he made for one of the fires, looking out for any familiar faces. Charlie and Gilda were there, and they called out to him happily, offering him a beer or several when he settled next to them on the cold, dry grass. After some time, Balthazar materialized out of seemingly nowhere and plopped down next to him. He had a bottle of vodka in his hands, and they took turns drinking from it as they played Never Have I Ever.

All the while, Castiel kept glancing out of the corner of his eyes, trying to catch sight of Dean. He never did. Nor did he see anyone else paying close attention to him so they could report his whereabouts to his brothers. As the alcohol began swimming in his head, Castiel relaxed, and let himself enjoy the party.

He did, however, anxiously and excessively check his phone. When he was certain a half hour had gone by, he was disappointed to find it was only three minutes. Balthazar had laughed at him at one point, having noticed it. He asked, “Have you some kind of hot date, Cassie?” Castiel blushed, and tried not to sound too flustered in his response, especially when Charlie bit down a knowing smile.

The minutes ticked agonizingly slow towards midnight, but when the time was drawing nearer, Castiel’s frequency in checking the time must have noticeably increased. Balthazar ripped his phone from his hands and jumped up despite Castiel’s protests. He had to chase him around the fire a few times before he was finally able to wrestle his phone back. And, by then, he was four minutes late.

He made some excuse about needing to find a bathroom, and Charlie almost gave him away by shouting, “Have fun!”

The inside of the barn was pitch black, but all of the dancers were equipped with glow sticks that they waved over their heads or wore from bouncing strings around their necks as they moved. Castiel looked up at the hayloft, where more sticks of green and red and blue were visible as people laughed and drank as they overlooked the dancing crowd.

Castiel squinted, trying to find Dean, but it was too dark. That was the point, of course, so they wouldn’t be seen together. But how were they expected to meet if Castiel couldn’t even find him?

Perhaps it was better this way. It was a stupid risk, but it was one he so desperately wanted to take. He didn’t know why such an urge spurred him on. Maybe it was the thrill of it, or maybe he just wanted to prove to himself that Michael wasn’t in charge of his life anymore. It was silly, and ridiculous, and exhilarating.

He continued to scan the crowd, wondering if he should shove in and attempt to find Dean, but it turned out he didn’t have to. Two strong arms wrapped themselves around Castiel from behind, and he didn’t have to look back to know who it was. He smelled the twang of sweat mixed with leather and aftershave. He felt the warmth radiating off the body behind him, and he instantly melted.

“Dean,” he said, and he wasn’t sure if it was heard over the music, but Dean began nibbling on the shell of Castiel’s ear. Castiel bit his bottom lip and placed his arms over Dean’s around his middle.

“What took you so long?” Dean asked against his ear, and his words were a little slurred.

Castiel huffed out a laugh and strained his neck to look around at him. Dean’s hair was askew, and his eyes were hooded and far away. “You’re drunk.”

“You complainin’?”

Castiel pressed their mouths together, and Dean instantly parted his lips to slide their tongues together. He tasted like cheap vodka.

The song switched into something a little slower, with a beat building beneath the lyrics. Dean leaned away, a grin cracking his slick lips. “Wanna dance?” he said, and Castiel nodded. He still really didn’t know how to dance, but most people just swung their hips and grinded against each other. It wasn’t very complicated, even if he did feel silly doing it and he had no clue what to do with his hands most of the time. But he wouldn’t object to Dean’s body moving against his.

He grabbed Dean’s wrist and they walked into the sea of dancing people. As they pushed through, Castiel gripped Dean harder so they wouldn’t get separated. At one point, Dean stopped, yanking him back slightly, and Castiel looked over to find some girl trying to dance with Dean. Dean was beaming down at her, his free arm around her waist, and Castiel had to look away because he was certain Dean would leave him for her. But then Dean started walking again, and Castiel’s heart sped up happily as he pulled him as far away from the girl as he could manage.

They carved out a space in the throng towards the back wall of the barn, and Castiel turned into Dean. Dean’s hands went to his hips, and he pushed their bodies in close before he started to move. Castiel swayed with him, letting Dean lead.

The music played on, bouncing off the wood and seeming to come from all around them.

Castiel locked his palm around the back of Dean’s neck and pulled him in for a kiss. He couldn’t hear it, but he felt Dean groan into his mouth as he returned it, sloppy and fast. Dean’s arms went from holding his hips to wrapping around Castiel’s waist. He slipped his thigh between Castiel’s until Castiel was practically riding it, and the sensation it elicited made him gasp into Dean’s mouth. Dean responded by deepening the kiss and tightening his hold. Castiel massaged his fingers into Dean’s neck, and his free hand went up to grab Dean’s bicep.

He had no idea how long they stayed like that, making out on the dance floor as people jostled around them. Vaguely, Castiel realized the song had changed, but he wasn’t sure how many had played in that time span. It could have two, or it could have been ten. The only things he felt were Dean’s body moving against his, the feel of Dean’s hands and mouth on him, the way Dean’s breath skirted across his cheeks when they broke apart for air, and all the blood in his body rushing downwards.

It was getting much too hard to breathe around the other dancers. The air was thick with humidity, and Castiel felt sweat on his forehead. As Dean kissed his neck, Castiel looked around for somewhere they could escape where they might have a little more privacy and room to breathe. There was a back door to the barn not far to their left, and he quickly tapped Dean on the shoulder to get his attention. Dean exhumed his face and blinked at him. Castiel signaled to the door, and Dean glanced at it before looking back and nodding. Castiel grabbed his wrist again and pulled him towards it.

No one was in the back of the barn, but the rhythm of the music still vibrated under Castiel’s shoes, and he could still hear chatter and hollering from the bonfires in the fields. He grabbed Dean by the front of the shirt and hauled him against the back wall, and he wasted no time before smashing their lips together.

Dean hooked one of his legs around Castiel, slotting their bodies flush together. Spurred on by it, Castiel licked his way back into Dean’s mouth, eager to taste the bitter alcohol on his tongue, mixed with the distinct flavor that belonged only to Dean. He slid his hand up the front of Dean’s shirt between them, bunching up the fabric as he moved higher up to rub circles with his thumb along Dean’s torso. His skin was still hot from dancing in the packed crowd, a nice oasis from the chill whipping against Castiel’s skin and freezing the sweat in his hair. He pressed closer to Dean, savoring the heat.

The movement pulled a short grunt from Dean’s throat and, like it was an automatic response, his leg around Castiel tightened and he pitched his hips forward. Castiel felt heat pool in his lower abdomen almost at once. It was a little dizzying, but he pushed through. It felt so perfect, even fully clothed. He rolled his body into Dean again, and a thrill went through him when it elicited the same reaction.

He kissed Dean deeper, all of him screaming urgently for _more_.

Dean turned away, gasping in a large bout of air that sounded like, “Cas.”

Castiel dug his fingers into Dean’s thigh to keep his leg in place. He kissed along Dean’s jaw, down his neck to suck at the skin under his ear. He thrust again, and Dean let out a whimpering noise as he chased the motion.

“Cas, _please_ —,” he said, breath coming out in pants, like he was unsure what to do.

“No, Dean, I,” Cas told him, still kissing his neck. “I want to.” He planted a kiss to Dean’s chin. “Dean. Tell me you want to.”

Dean was looking at him darkly, eyes half-lidded and focusing on Castiel’s lips. His mouth was parted slightly, breath fogging in the space between them. He didn’t say anything at all. He rounded his palm to the back of Castiel’s head and pulled him in for an open-mouthed kiss.

Distantly, Castiel knew they should find somewhere to go. They should go back to Dean’s apartment, or the Impala, or anywhere. But he didn’t want to break the moment, afraid that it would give them time to change their minds. Besides, he didn’t think he could wait anymore. After weeks of being able to kiss Dean again, he wanted more. He wanted to feel their bodies moving against each other. He wanted to make Dean feel good, to watch Dean come, to know he was the one to do it.

He didn’t want unspoken words and desires to get in the way. No more fumbling sentences and inarticulate thoughts. No more curbing how he felt. He wanted Dean to know it through touch, through the only language either of them seemed to understand fully when it came to each other.

He was just about to reach down to unbuckle Dean’s pants when a startled voice from off to the side said, “Oh—Dear, well. I see I’m interrupting.”

Castiel ripped himself away, his heart skipping with the fear that whoever had caught them would tell others, that it would get back to Michael. He was an _idiot_ , thinking the darkness of the dance floor would make him anonymous, that he was just another person at this party. He’d ruined everything, and now his lungs were burning and his clothes were rumpled and Dean was still against the barn wall with swollen lips, looking completely debauched. And—Castiel knew that voice.

He turned his head to find Balthazar standing by the edge of the wall, appearing all at once amused, apologetic, and annoyed.

“Castiel,” he said, huffing a little. His eyes moved to Dean. “Dean. Lovely to see you again.”

Dean let out a breath that sounded like a curse as he ran his hand nervously down the back of his head. He seemed a bit relieved, like he’d been worried they’d been caught, too. “Hey,” he said gruffly when he recovered.

Castiel’s breath was starting to catch up with him, and the cold on his cheeks was seeping to the rest of the body, replacing the tingling heat of arousal.

“Castiel, darling, might I have a private word?” Balthazar turned to start walking, already expecting Castiel to follow him.

Castiel stayed put. “No.” He already knew what Balthazar was going to say. It was the same thing he’d said when Castiel got home from Dean’s apartment the night Balthazar had called him. That he was all for having some fun, and he was grateful that Castiel was finally opening himself up, but that Castiel was risking himself needlessly. That he could lose everything and it wasn’t worth it. That he would regret this later. That he was only making his life more complicated and would end up hurting himself. That there were plenty of other fish in the sea.

He wasn’t interested in hearing it again.

Balthazar looked back around, blinking dumbly. “No?” he echoed, like he’d never heard the word before. He appeared as if he’d been kicked, and a spike of remorse flared inside Castiel for being short with his friend, but this was none of Balthazar’s business. If he didn’t understand that Castiel would risk anything for Dean by now, there was no point in trying to convince him.

“Dean and I were just leaving,” Castiel said, turning back to Dean, who also blinked dumbly.

“We were?”

Castiel considered the fact that Balthazar’s interruption hadn’t been the worst possible thing. He still wanted Dean, but outside the heat of the moment, he acknowledged that their first time having sex post-make up shouldn’t be in freezing temperatures against the outer wall of a barn where half the school was dancing while both of them were slightly intoxicated. He didn’t want that. He wanted Dean to be certain, and he wanted them to be able to take their time. But that didn’t mean they couldn’t continue to kiss just because Balthazar had walked in on them.

“Yes,” he said pointedly.

Dean seemed to understand. He stood up from the wall and stepped closer to Castiel, who shot Balthazar one last glare telling him to mind his own business, grabbed Dean’s hand, and began pulling him in the opposite direction. Castiel heard Balthazar sigh dramatically behind them, but he kept walking.

“Where are we going?” Dean asked as soon as they rounded the corner. The bonfire was in sight again, still raging high as people huddled and drank around it.

Castiel let out a breath. His fingers that weren’t clasped in Dean’s were beginning to numb, and he longed for Dean’s body heat. He stopped walking, and looked around at Dean. “I don’t care.” He didn’t say, _I’d go anywhere as long as it’s with you_.

He thought, maybe, Dean heard it anyway.

For a long time, Dean just searched his face. He seemed more sober than before. He said, “I’m hungry. You hungry?”

Castiel nodded, even though he wasn’t.

Dean gave his hand a squeeze. “Let’s get out of here and get some food.”

///

They went to eat at Benny’s before heading back to Dean’s apartment for the night. Through the entire dinner and drive over, Dean could still feel Cas’ hands burning into his skin. The phantom touch of Cas’ mouth against his was searing. _I want to_ , played on a loop in his mind, making him a little lightheaded.

And now Cas was coming to sleep over for the first time in months. Dean wanted to bounce up and down from excitement just thinking about it, but he kept his cool. Somehow. He kept imagining waking up to Cas in the morning light, making pancakes for breakfast. Those things would be nice, but he was pretty focused on the rest of the night at the moment.

Because, for the last hour, Cas had kept shooting him those intense, hooded bedroom eyes of his, and it was way too easy to flirt with him right now. Dean really didn’t know what the result of that was going to be. But Cas was going home with him, and there was a kind of unspoken understanding between the two of them that, whatever was going to happen at the party before Balthazar cockblocked them was about to get picked back up.

When they got to the apartment, Dean opened up a couple beers, and they stayed at the kitchen table, drinking and talking for another hour. After, they went to Dean’s room and Dean let Cas borrow one of his t-shirts so he would be more comfortable. They stripped down to the boxers and shirts, and Dean got under the covers, laying back. 

Cas curled up next to Dean’s side, throwing his arm over Dean’s torso. He slipped their ankles together, and Dean shivered a little at the initial chill from Cas’ toes. He couldn’t help but chuckle gently. Cas always had such cold hands and feet.

“What?” Cas asked. He shifted, hooking his chin on Dean’s chest to look up at him. There was a smile glinting his eyes that didn’t reach his lips, and there had been humor in his voice, like he already knew the joke.

The corner of Dean’s mouth twitched in a smirk. “Nothin’. Just remind me to buy you socks as a graduation gift.”

Cas raised a brow at him. “Am I cold?”

“You’re freezing.”

Cas immediately slipped his fingers under the hem of Dean’s shirt, sending another chill through his body. “Stop!” Dean laughed, arching to get away. Cas pressed his palm down firmly, keeping him in place, but his hand was already starting to warm up so Dean didn’t mind it so much.

Hell, it could have been ice cold and Dean still wouldn’t have minded it.

He rolled over, making Cas follow the motion until his back was pressed against the mattress and Dean was on top of him. “I’m gonna warm you up,” Dean told him, and Cas seemed to like that idea.

His hands were already in Dean’s hair, and he scraped his teeth over his bottom lip and he nodded. “Okay,” he agreed, eyes sparkling like the ocean in the moonlight, as Dean pressed forward and kissed him. Dean could still feel Cas’ smile well into the kiss, and it made a light, frothy feeling in Dean’s chest that he thought might spill over for Cas to taste. After everything, this is still where Dean was happiest—with Cas’ body against his, the two of them wrapped up in each other as the world fell silent around them.

The press of Cas’ grin faded when the kiss got a little more heated, and Dean dipped his tongue into Cas’ mouth. Cas sunk down further into the pillows, his hands smoothing along Dean’s shoulder blades to pull him down with him. His knees bent up to box in Dean’s hips, and Dean felt a little bit of a stirring in his lower abdomen.

He kissed away from Cas’ mouth, peppering his jaw and neck, feeling the itch of his stubble against his lips and listening to Cas pant and moan. Cas’ hands were fisting at the back of Dean’s shirt, bunching the fabric as he scrambled to grab hold, and Dean didn’t want there to be any layers between them.

He just didn’t know if they were ready.

 _I want to_. Dean didn’t know if that was just the alcohol talking.

Sex had always been a big deal for Cas, so it was kind of a big deal for Dean. He wanted to, but he also didn’t want to fuck things up. They’d been doing so well. The other shoe was bound to drop sooner or later, and Dean didn’t want to be the cause of that by moving too fast.

But Dean’s dick wasn’t really getting the memo. It was filling out more and more with every slight shift of Cas’ body beneath him.

Cas must have felt it, too, because one of his hands left Dean’s back to squeeze his ass through his boxers. He pressed down, pushing Dean’s hips to dip down against his own, and the sharp protrusions of Cas’ hipbones were nothing compared to the half-hard length between his legs.

Dean pressed down further into him, wanting the slow drag that made little bursts of pleasure light up inside of him. Cas lifted his hips up slightly to meet Dean’s shallow thrust, and they both let out soft groans at the sensation it caused.

“Dean,” Cas eked out, voice like a snowstorm. Quiet, calm, and the next thing you knew, you were buried under its power.

 _Fuck_ , Dean wanted him.

He picked himself up by his elbows, just far enough to get himself off of Cas. Cas froze, eyes blown out and wide like he was afraid he’d done something wrong. Dean took one look at his bruised red lips and didn’t even think. He pinched the collar of his shirt and pulled it over his head.

Cas’ eyes went even wider, but Dean didn’t give him a moment to ask. He rucked Cas’ shirt up to his chest, eyeing the tanned skin stretching across his ribs, the tone of his stomach. He set in and sucked the skin there, and Cas shuddered. Dean worked his way up, pushing Cas’ shirt up more and more until Cas eventually got the message and took it off. His hands were roaming Dean’s bare back, fingertips grazing and palms roughing up and down.

Dean ran his tongue on Cas’ nipple, swirling it until it pebbled and Cas was writhing under him. And he still wasn’t _getting it_.

Looks like Dean would have to do all the work.

He moved up and kissed Cas on the mouth again, and Cas eagerly kissed back, sliding their tongues together. Dean wrapped his arms around Cas middle and rolled over, pulling Cas on top of him.

Cas straddled his hips, still weakly thrusting them together as they continued to kiss. He put his palms, hot now, on Dean’s sides and dragged them up his ribs and chest, leaving red marks of pressure in their wake. Dean lifted his neck, kissing Cas hungrily.

Cas slid down a little so he was sitting on Dean’s thighs, and then snaked one hand between them to press the heel of his palm into the base of Dean’s erection.

Dean gasped into his mouth and bucked his hips—and, yes, this was more like it. 

He skewed his eyes shut tight in concentration as Cas touched and teased through his boxers. And maybe this was still okay. They weren’t naked. This wasn’t technically sex. It was just a _very_ hands-on make out session. Maybe this wouldn’t ruin everything.

With that thought in mind, Dean dragged his hand down Cas’ torso, reveling in the dips and grooves of his muscles, until it was cupped over the front of Cas’ boxers. He rubbed Cas’ erection back and forth, aware of the wet spot on the fabric. He was more focused on the small grunts Cas was forcing down his throat.

They kissed and touched and grinded into each other, and it wasn’t enough, but it would have to be for now.

Dean could already feel his orgasm building in his toes. It had been too long, and it was kind of sad that the first sign on someone’s hand on his dick made him this stimulated, but he needed this. He needed Cas.

And Cas’ movements were beginning to judder and jerk, too.

Cas ripped their lips apart and sucked in a deep breath, and Dean felt his cock twitch before he pressed into Dean’s hand and gave a low, long moan. Dean was enraptured by the way Cas’ mouth fell open, the furrow of his brow, the way his eyes went out of focus.

Dean felt his muscles tightening, too, but he kept looking up at Cas, because he wanted to see this. He loved watching Cas come.

“Come on, babe. I got you,” Dean panted out. “Come on, Cas.”

“ _Dean_ —Ah.” Cas stopped making any sounds, and his eyes fixated on Dean’s stare. The look in them was enough to send Dean over the edge.He let himself get lost in it. He thrust up into Cas’ touch and let it carry him through—desperate and fast and almost painful in how good it felt.

He collapsed back against the mattress when it was over, and Cas settled on top of them as they both struggled to catch their breath. Dean worked his throat, swallowed hard and focused on Cas’ weight on top of him rather than the drying come in his boxers.

After a while, Cas sighed against his shoulder in a contented way. He picked his head up, and beamed his stupid, gummy smile at Dean. Dean’s chest fluttered at the sight of it. It was a rare one, especially recently.

“Happy?” Dean asked.

Cas nodded at him. “Very.” He looked it, too. Cas practically glowed after he came, but this was just different. It was _more_.

Dean pursed his lips for a kiss, and Cas leaned in to peck them.

“C’mon,” Dean then said, not really wanting to lose the newfound body heat on top of him but knowing it was for the best. He brushed his knuckles up and down Cas’ arm. “Let’s get cleaned up and go to sleep.”

Cas seemed okay with that plan. He said, “If that’s what you want, Dean.”

///

When Castiel woke up, it was due to a knocking at the front door. He was still wrapped around Dean, and he squinted in the dark to find Dean’s eyes already open and alert. “What time is it?” he slurred, too tired to look up at the clock on the nightstand.

“Three,” Dean said, his voice groggy. He extracted himself from Castiel’s arms and picked himself up to sit back on his knees. He looked for his shirt, and pulled it on when he found it. “Stay here,” he said.

Castiel sat up, the blankets pooling around his lap as he watched Dean exit the room, leaving the door open a crack. A few seconds later, the hall light flicked on, and Castiel winced in the line of light that hit vertically down his face.

He heard the distant clatter of the chain on the front door being taken off, then the click of the lock. There was a brief second before Dean’s angered voice came down the hall: “What the hell do you—?”

“Where is he?”

Castiel’s blood went cold. That was Uriel’s voice. Uriel was here, and he was looking for him, and Castiel didn’t know why. Did he go to his apartment first? For what purpose? Did Balthazar tell him that Castiel was seeing Dean again? Did Michael know?

He realized Dean was saying something—arguing. He wouldn’t be able to hold Uriel back for long. Quickly, Castiel felt around for his shirt and boxers, and slipped into them. A plan was forming in his head as he lopsidedly buttoned up his shirt. Although, frankly, it was less of a plan and more of a prayer. Because, if any of his brothers were to find him in Dean Winchester’s apartment at three o’clock in the morning, he was actually relieved that it was Uriel.

As quietly as possible, he slipped out of Dean’s room and sidled along the wall of the hallway as he inched towards the living room.

“For the last time, chuckles, I ain’t seen Cas for months,” Dean was saying.

“We both know that isn’t true. I know you’ve been in contact with him.” 

“Oh, yeah? And who told you that? What, you got a tail on him now, too?”

Uriel laughed dryly. “Your loyalty is astounding. I can almost see why he likes you.”

Castiel peered around the corner to find Dean, shoulders pulled drawstring tight and looking like he was ready to throw a few punches, and Uriel, glaring despite the almost impressed curve of his lips in the threshold.

Tersely, Dean said, “Well, he’s not here. And if I never have another Novak in my house again, it’ll be too soon, so why don’t you get the fuck out of—.”

Castiel tightened his fists, and drew himself to his full height. He told himself not to think too hard about what he was about to do. He tried to tell himself he was making the right call. He stepped into the living room. “Dean.”

Both of their necks whipped towards him, Dean’s eyes wide with surprise while Uriel’s darkened. Castiel focused on his brother, trying his best to seem calm and authoritative despite his rumpled hair and boxer shorts. “Hello, Uriel.”

“Castiel,” Uriel said, his voice already clipped with exasperation. “I was hoping not to find you here.” He tried to push past Dean into the apartment, but Dean quickly recovered from his shock and barred his entrance by shoving his hand to Uriel’s chest. Uriel turned his eyes on him, simmering. “Get your hand off me, boy.”

“You take another step and it’ll be my foot up your ass.”

“Enough,” Castiel told them both. He looked at Dean, softening his expression. “It’s alright, Dean, let him in.”

For a second, it looked like Dean wouldn’t listen. He kept glowering. Then, with a reluctant click of his tongue, he backed up.

Uriel came through right away, rounding Dean with a wide breadth towards the couch. “Do you have any idea what you’re doing just by being here, Castiel? You’re better than this—smarter. I wouldn’t have thought you’d be such a slave to your emotions.” Castiel let him rant, keeping his expression neutral as he watched his brother carefully. Uriel sighed, his shoulders dropping. “You know I’ll have to report this to Michael.”

“No, you won’t,” Castiel told him, sounding more certain than he felt. “If you truly suspected I was here, you would have told him already.”

Uriel seemed a little thrown. He’d always been a good liar, but Castiel was becoming skilled at such things, too; besides, he knew Uriel.

“You’ve been following me?” he asked. He’d assumed Michael had someone tracking his movements, but he hadn’t expected it to be Uriel.

“No,” was the answer. “But I have been . . . checking in.”

Castiel looked down, searching the floor as if the answer to his question was written on the scuffed wood. He didn’t ask whom Uriel had been checking in with, because he thought he already knew.

Balthazar’s concerned late night phone calls. His eagerness to keep Castiel away from Dean.

Balthazar had been tasked with supervising Castiel. He should have figured that out sooner, really. Maybe he just didn’t want to believe another friend would go behind his back like that, would compromise his happiness. Balthazar, of all people, should have understood what Castiel was going through.

Castiel shut it down. He needed to focus on his brother at the moment, and he couldn’t blame Uriel for Balthazar’s transgressions.

“Under Michael’s orders,” Uriel supplied.

Castiel looked back up. “Michael’s?” he echoed. It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the whole truth, either. At least, that’s what he was banking on.

“Of course,” Uriel said, brow furrowing. He was hiding something.

With a brief glance at Dean, still standing firmly in the door, Castiel said, “I know you’ve been keeping Lucifer informed of the company’s affairs. And of our family.”

Uriel took a step closer, like he meant to end this before it got started. “Brother—.”

“I _know_ , Uriel,” Castiel said pointedly, making him pause. “Everything. The killings, the narcotics, all of it.” Uriel didn’t confirm it with words, but he did nod after a beat. Castiel didn’t need confirmation—it was a little past that—but the acknowledgement from a member of his family still made something sharp twist in his gut until he could taste metal on his tongue. “Was Michael ever going to tell me?”

“Yes,” was the answer. “When you were ready.” He threw a look at Dean. “And when we were certain you could be trusted.”

“It seems neither of us can be,” he said, raising his brows. “I take it you share Lucifer’s sentiments. It’s why you’ve been in contact with him all these years.”

Uriel didn’t say anything, and Castiel took that as a yes. He folded his hands behind his back and walked a little closer, now that he was sure he was pulling on the right thread. He just needed to be careful not to unravel it all.

“He was working to expose our father, and Evangelist. While I don’t approve of his methods—.”

“He was doing what he thought was best,” Uriel quickly defended, speaking through his teeth.

Castiel held up his hand to silence him. When he knew Uriel’s anger was capped, he continued, “Dean and I are finishing what he started. That’s why Michael cannot know I’m here.”

Uriel’s eyes flickered between the two of them thoughtfully. He said, “How?”

If Castiel’s body wasn’t coiled so tightly, he may have let out a sigh of relief, but now wasn’t the time. He said, “You don’t have to concern yourself with how. But, when the time comes, you’ll be able to save yourself. Cooperate.”

After considering it, Uriel nodded once.

“And Uriel? Talk to Lucifer. He knows things, from before, that I don’t. That none of us do. If he talks . . .” He almost didn’t want to finish that thought, because Lucifer wouldn’t cooperate with the police if he weren’t getting something in return. Still, he had valuable information. He was a monster, a sociopath, but Michael was far worse.

Dean seemed to understand where he was going with this, because he said, “What? Cas, hang on—.”

Castiel powered through, talking over him, “He could get what he wanted.”

Uriel looked as if he knew the implications of that, and it only gave him more reason to follow Castiel’s plan. “Yes. I will speak to him. But that’s all I’ll do, Castiel. I will keep my mouth shut and allow you to proceed, but I won’t get involved further.” He looked at Dean again, almost sneering. “Not if this plan of yours fails.”

Castiel nodded, accepting it.

With one last look between them, Uriel scoffed in Dean’s direction and then made for the door. Castiel waited.

Dean didn’t. “Cas—.”

“Shh.”

He listened to Uriel’s footfalls fade away down the stairs. When he couldn’t hear them anymore, he let his body relax. He felt exhausted. He breathed out. His shoulders slumped.

“Okay.”

Dean flapped out his arms, as if to say _what the hell_. “What the hell! You can’t seriously trust him?”

“Of course, not,” Castiel told him, shooting him a sideways look. He wasn’t an idiot. “That’s why I neglected to tell him the details of our plan. He may not be on our side, but he is on Lucifer’s.”

“Oh, and that’s supposed to make me feel better? You know Lucifer’ll try to cut a deal in exchange for information, right? This’ll be his damn get out of jail free card.”

Maybe. Or maybe he’d get himself a reduced sentence. But Lucifer was going to be released sooner or later, anyway. “And? My family’s house will be re-possessed. Evangelist will be gone. We’ll have no money. Lucifer will be powerless.”

Dean didn’t seem to buy it. He tensed. “People like him always have power.”

“Not nearly what Michael has now,” Castiel reminded him. “It’s the lesser of two evils.”

Dean couldn’t argue with that, but he still looked uncomfortable. He glared at the door, as if Uriel was still standing there.

“Dean,” Castiel said, softening. He went up to him, cupped his hands to Dean’s jaw, and turned his face to catch his eyes. He just wanted Dean to trust him again. “I’m sorry I didn’t consult you first, but I wasn’t expecting Uriel to show up here.”

Dean gave a “ _humph_ ” sound, but he relaxed some. “Yeah, okay,” he said. And then, “Wonder who he was _checking in_ with, anyway.”

Castiel’s eyes flickered down again. He wanted to be wrong. Something told him he wasn’t.

///

The next morning, Castiel arrived at his apartment a little before Balthazar was due at his first class of the day. He found his friend in the kitchen, shoving a few granola bars into his jacket pockets as a travel mug was filling up beneath the coffee machine. At the first sight of him, something burning hot filled Castiel's chest, but he ignored it, and kept his expression stony as he slammed the front door to gain Balthazar's attention.

Balthazar jumped instantly, and clutched his chest as he settled. "Good Lord, are you trying to kill me?"

That remained to be seen.

"Hello, Balthazar," Castiel said, not bothering to take off his coat as he strode towards the kitchen without entering it. He situated himself between the breakfast table and the entrance, blocking any escape route.

"Castiel," Balthazar said, going back to what he was doing. He replaced the box of granola bars back in the cabinet. "I'm glad you're here, actually. I believe you and I should chat."

Castiel ground his teeth, seething. How could Balthazar be so flippant? He wasn't interested in hearing any more lies, especially from someone who was supposed to be his friend. He wondered if everyone in life apart from the Winchesters was trying to deceive him.

"Yes, let's talk," he said, narrowing his eyes and tilting his head to the side. "That way, you can tell me just how long you've been informing my brothers of my whereabouts."

Balthazar froze mid-reach towards his coffee. There was a beat before he turned towards Castiel, attempting to play off the accusation despite the look of surprise in his eyes. It was all Castiel needed to know his suspicions were correct, no matter how much he'd been hoping he was wrong.

He pressed his lips together, and nodded once. "So, it's true?"

"Now, Cassie, wait—," Balthazar tried quickly, holding his palms up as if in surrender. Castiel got the feeling that, if there were anything white and remotely flag-like in the immediate area, he'd be waving it profusely. And Castiel didn't feel any pity.

He took a step closer, and Balthazar backed up until his back hit the counter. "Explain. Now," he growled. "Before my patience runs out."

Balthazar seemed to understand just how close that was to happening, because his words practically overlapped as he said, "Whatever I did, it was with your well-being in mind, you must know that. The same goes for your brothers." Castiel very much doubted the latter part. "I know how you feel about Dean. Honestly, I do. But, this fling you have with him isn't sustainable, and I think you know that. I beg of you—," he put his hands together as if in prayer, "don't toss away your life. Look out for yourself for once."

"For myself," Castiel repeated sardonically. "Why do you care? So that you can continue to benefit from my family's money? Continue to live in this apartment? Have I ever been anything but a meal ticket for you?"

Balthazar fell silent, stunned, his mouth opening and closing a few times. He looked pained, and then angry. "Did it ever once occur to you that I might just be your friend?" he answered, tone too clipped for him to be lying. Perhaps Castiel would have felt guilty if Balthazar hadn't betrayed his trust. "That I want what's best for you?"

Castiel stared him down. Everyone was always citing that very sentiment as a way to justify the chains around his ankles. He blinked away.

"As does Michael, by the way."

Castiel's fists tightened, and he squared his jaw. Balthazar must have seen it, because he leaned off the counter and said, "I apologize." It was rare for Balthazar to be sorry, and Castiel almost cared. "I do. Castiel, allow me to make it up to you."

Castiel's eyes snapped back to him, and he recalled the reason for this confrontation. "You will," he assured.

Balthazar appeared surprised by Castiel's willingness, but he must have known there was something shrewd behind it. Still, he held out his arms and said, "Anything."

"You will continue to make your reports to my brothers," Castiel told him plainly. "But you will lie. You will tell them I'm here, or at the library. Anything. You won't inform them of any contact you surmise I have with Dean—or Sam. You won't cause them to suspect you're being untruthful. Do you understand?"

Balthazar sighed, and he looked like he might argue, as if he believed he had any choice in the matter. "Castiel, please—."

"Do you understand?" Castiel repeated, and firmly decided that he wouldn't do so again.

Reluctantly, Balthazar nodded. "Yes."

"Good." Castiel turned back towards the door. He didn't really know where he would go. He didn't have class for another hour, but he couldn't stay in the apartment. Maybe he needed to take a walk, to calm the storm brewing in his chest and sending sparks of lightning to his fingertips.

But, when he got to the door, he paused, hand on the knob, slightly surprised the electricity inside him did cause a shock against the metal. He glowered over his shoulder again, wanting to make himself exceptionally clear. Balthazar hadn't moved.

"And Balthazar?" he said. "I'll decide what's best for me."


	22. Chapter 22

School was out for spring break, and Sam had accompanied Eileen back east to spend the week with her aunt. Cas was supposed to spend the break at the Novak's ranch with his brothers and a few of their executives, but he made some excuse about wanting to focus on planning the fair, since he'd been so "busy" the previous few weeks studying for midterms. He was really at Dean's for the majority of the week, both of them enjoying the time off without having to look over their shoulders for Michael.

They did plan for the fair—kind of. It was a couple of weeks away and they were still waiting on Meg to get them that list of names. Otherwise, they'd have no way of connecting Evangelist to the drug dealers. Even with that, it was iffy. "Circumstantial," was the word Sam used. It looked fishy, but it wouldn't be damning.

Cas kept insisting he could get a recorded confession, but Dean didn't want him sticking his neck out like that unless it were completely necessary. They only had to do so much, and then the cops could take over with their warrants or whatever.

But still, what they had didn't feel like enough. Each aspect of it seemed monumental at the time, but—when put together? Dean secretly thought there was no way it would stack up to the mind control the Novaks had over the town.

But he wasn't worried about any of those particulars at the moment. He was mostly focusing on the scratch of Cas' stubble as Dean kissed beneath his chin and jaw. They were in the kitchen as the sun outside was setting through the small window, painting the tiny room in pinks and golds. Cas was sitting on the only free counter space in the entire kitchen, his shoulders pressed against the cabinets up top. Dean was standing wedged between his knees, his hands planted on Cas' thighs through his jeans. As Dean kissed him, Cas' fingers were carding through his hair.

The entire room smelled like the red sauce that was bubbling inside a pot on the stove, with another pot of pasta boiling on the only other burner out of the four that worked. Dean felt comfortable, warm, even if it was still a little chilly outside this early in the springtime.

He hummed happily and pressed his face into Cas' chest, and for a second the smell of food cooking was replaced with rainwater and something sweet and fresh through Cas’ shirt. He wrapped his arms tightly around Cas' middle, locking him in, and turned his head to rest his cheek on him. Cas' heartbeat was a little quickened.

After a second, Cas reached for the wooden spoon next to him on the counter and stirred the sauce. He scooped out some and blew on it before bringing it level to Dean's mouth. Dean slurped some off, ignoring the steam that still rose up from it. It burned the roof of his mouth a little, but not too much that it hurt.

"Needs more garlic," he said around the sauce, his words jumbled as he kept his mouth open to cool it off.

Keeping one hand on Dean, Cas put the spoon down and reached for the garlic powder instead. He sprinkled some in until Dean told him, "Alright, alright, enough. We're not tryin' to ward off vampires here."

Cas' chest rumbled against Dean's ear. “We’d need to call Abraham Lincoln.”

Dean barked out a laugh, and the next thing he felt was Cas leaning down to kiss the crown of his head. It made him smile against Cas' chest, and he was pretty sure Cas could feel the way Dean's cheeks pulled.

It had been a good week.

They did all the stuff they used to do when they were just friends. They watched movies, listened to music, drove around in the Impala, went to Benny's. Dean even got to hang out with Claire and Jack at the park yesterday, which was awesome. He'd missed those two.

They made out a lot, too, which was even more awesome.

Of course, in between it all, they finessed their plans for the fair, but the majority of the week so far had been used for getting re-antiquated with one another—which wasn't so hard to do.

Some things were different. Some days, Dean woke up next to Cas and wanted to kick him out just for bearing the Novak name, which was a fact Dean was really trying not to hold against him. Other times, he remembered his mom, and was struck with guilt just for how guilty he _wasn't_ feeling about hanging out with Cas again. Sometimes, Dean would catch Cas giving him this look—like he was sorry, or like he was regretting something, or like he was second-guessing himself—and Dean wanted to punch him.

It wasn't perfect, but they were trying, and Dean was re-learning how to trust him. And Cas was learning that he didn't have to hide things. And they were both learning how to fit back into each other's lives somehow.

And sometimes, Dean thought he was fitting the rest of his life around Cas—because the only thing that mattered was that they were together. The two of them, and Sam. Everything else, Dean could do without if he needed to.

Dean readjusted himself, picking up his head to rest his chin against Cas, just so he could have those blue eyes in his line of sight. Cas looked back down at him, and Dean couldn't help the grin that broke out on his cheeks.

A confused line formed in between Cas' eyebrow, and he canted his head to the side.

Some things were different, sure, but most things were exactly the same as they'd always been. Because Dean didn't have to re-learn how to be in love with Cas. He'd never stopped.

"What is it?" Cas asked, sounding wary, like Dean was pulling a prank on him.

Dean shook his head slightly. "Nothin'." His embrace tightened around Cas, and when he said he wasn't going to ever let him go this time, he meant it.

Cas' expression turned fond and adoring at that before his cell phone vibrated with a text on the counter next to them. He hummed out a surprised sound, and then drew away to pick up his phone. Dean busied himself stirring the pasta and sauce.

"It's Meg," Cas told him, suddenly sounding urgent.

Dean's heart skipped a beat, not just because he hated the mere mention of Meg's name, but because he was nervous about what the text would say.

"She has copies of her father's ledger," Cas reported.

Dean sighed, halfway to relief. "About time." He was starting to think she was pulling a fast one on them. Even now, he wasn't convinced she wasn't. He wouldn't believe it until he held the copies in his own two hands.

"She wants to meet us later tonight at Holcom Park."

Dean reluctantly pulled off Cas to get the strainer from the cabinet. "Good. Tell her we'll be there."

As Cas typed out his reply, Dean strained the noodles into the sink. He tried to keep his doubts to himself, but he'd never really been good at holding back when it came to people he hated. "You sure we can trust her?" he asked, just to be sure. He already knew the answer, though. Cas was always way too trusting for his own good.

"Yes," Cas answered, sure enough. But he obviously saw Dean's hesitation, because he said, "Dean, if you don't want to see her, I can go alone tonight—."

Dean cut him off with an aggressively phony laugh. If Meg was pulling one over on them, he was not about to let Cas walk into that alone. Besides, he didn't want her to try any funny quid pro quo crap on him. "No way. Hell, no. I'm there."

Cas sighed, but nodded. He maintained, "She'll help, Dean."

Dean turned back to the draining pasta and bit his tongue, despite the unease still unsettling his gut. He really hoped Cas was right.

Cas hopped off the counter and went into the fridge to get the butter and parmesan cheese out. Dean had to squeeze behind him on his way back from the sink, and hip-checked him playfully as he passed. Cas jumped a little, but generally ignored him, and Dean went over to the sauce to spoon some into the pasta. He added the ingredients Cas got from the fridge and stirred it all together before dividing it into two bowls. He left the extras on the stove for now as he and Cas went to the table to eat.

Like usual, he waited until Cas ate the first bite, enjoying the way he melted around it at first. Dean grinned shyly down at his bowl as he mixed the pasta around. He collected himself enough to take a bite, and said into it, “So, you think that the names on Meg’s list’ll match up to Charlie’s?”

Cas chewed thoughtfully for a second, swallowed, and said, “I hope so.”

Dean lowered his fork, regarding Cas for a couple seconds. “You do?” He wasn’t complaining. He knew Cas wasn’t like his family, but they were still his siblings. They’d still be going to jail, if things worked out to plan. Sometimes, he still couldn’t believe Cas was on board with that. Sometimes, he thought Cas couldn’t believe it, either.

“It’s what’s best, Dean,” he answered solemnly. “Every negative this will cause is outweighed by the positives in the long run. I have to believe that.”

Dean couldn’t help himself. He asked, “Even if it means wrecking your family?”

Cas stared into his bowl, his fork sticking out of it untouched as his hands rested on his lap under the table. “Yes,” he said quietly.

Dean shrugged, accepting the answer. He didn’t want to press any more, and Cas didn’t really seem like he was in a chatty mood on the topic. “Well, you can always stay here with me and Sam ‘til you get back on your feet without Daddy Warbucks.”

Cas blinked then, seeming surprised. He looked up at Dean, a slight smile barely gracing his lips. The awe and reverence was back in his eyes.

It wasn’t until then that Dean realized what he’d said. “What?” he asked, trying to play it off.

Cas’ smile grew fractionally, until he shook his head down at his dinner. “Nothing. Thank you, Dean.”

Dean didn’t say anything else about it. He just let it hang in the air, and allowed Cas to interpret it however he wanted. Dean wasn’t really sure what he’d meant by it, to be honest. But he thought he was willing to let bygones be bygones. He just wanted the past to be behind them. Maybe some might argue it was uncharacteristic of him, but he’d rather not hold on to all the pain and hate and remorse.

He’d rather have Cas.

///

They’d been sitting out in the cold for twenty minutes, well past the time Meg said she’d meet them. Dean didn’t like this. Something wasn’t right. His metaphorical hackles were standing up, and his leg kept bouncing in anticipation. Meg was screwing with them. He didn’t get how Cas couldn’t see that.

They should go before something bad happened.

Dean checked the time on his phone for the hundredth time since they sat down on the park bench outside the baseball field. He said, “Alright, I’m callin’ it. She's not coming.”

“She’ll come,” Cas insisted calmly, squinting forward into the empty park like he’d been doing for what felt like hours.

He had way too much faith in her, and Dean hated it. Maybe Cas just didn’t want anyone else in his life betraying him, and Dean got that. He did. But it didn’t change the fact that this was _Meg_ , and that’s probably exactly what was happening. “Something reeks, Cas.”

Cas side-eyed him, seeming a little exasperated now. “Trust me.”

That wasn’t the problem here. "I don’t trust _her_. Where the hell is she?" Dean grumbled, glancing around again at the empty sandlot. Cas reached towards him and blanketed Dean's fists on his lap with his palm.

"She'll come," he assured again, sounding way too confident.

Dean snorted, unconvinced. "I hate waiting out in the open like this. I feel naked."

"It's after midnight. There isn't anyone around."

"Exactly! No one to hear us scream."

Cas cocked his head to the side and raised a skeptical brow. Dean rolled his eyes and looked away. "Don't gimme the look." He just didn't have the faith in Meg that Cas, for whatever reason, did.

Next to him, Cas sighed patiently. "Dean," he said. He brought his hand up to slide it against Dean's jaw, and gently turned Dean's face to look at him. Dean, who practically melted whenever Cas did shit like that, followed easily. Cas didn't try to convince him any further. He just leaned in and pressed their lips together, warming Dean up instantly from the inside. Dean reciprocated by sliding his tongue into Cas' mouth. Cas tasted like an electrical storm.

"Well, hey there, fellas," a penetrating, honey voice said, cutting through the night.

They both gasped slightly as they came apart, and Dean looked over his shoulder to find Meg standing a couple of feet behind them.

"Nice to see you two are all chummy again. I was starting to get sick of the angst," she said, and folded her arms across her chest.

"Meg," Cas said, and despite his former confidence, he sounded a little wary. They both stood up from the bench to face her, and Dean realized that Cas' concern wasn't without reason. She wasn't holding anything in her hands—no files or pictures or photocopies. The pockets of her sleek leather jacket looked too small to hold any of that.

"Hey, Castiel. Long time no see," she said, a leering kind of smile lighting her face as she eyed him in a way that set Dean's teeth on edge.

"Where's the stuff?" he asked, voice gruff and impatient.

Meg dropped her arms and began strolling to one side, looking like she was planning on circling them in a wide arc. "Yeah, about that," she said, clicking her tongue. "'Fraid plans have changed, Dean-o."

Dean cursed under his breath. That bitch. He should have listened to his gut. They shouldn't have gone to meet her.

"What?" Cas asked, sounding a little thrown.

Meg gave a shallow kind of laugh and stopped walking, facing them fully again. "You really think I'd just give up all my dealers? Really? I'm not gonna throw my life away just 'cause the brothers Winchester say please. You should probably do the same thing, Clarence."

Cas was gritting his teeth at her, expression twisting into a kind of snarl. Dean knew he was going to make a move for her before he even tried to step forward. He got one charging step in before Dean slapped his hand to his chest.

"So, why are we here?" he demanded.

Meg didn't say anything. She just grinned again and turned her eyes towards the baseball field. Dean's gaze flickered over, too, and he watched a shadow coming out from behind the metal bleachers. It was tall and thin, almost skeletal. Alastair walked into the light of the lamp a few seconds later.

Dean tensed, stomach churning with a mix of hatred and fear. Without meaning to, he tightened his fingers against the front of Cas' coat.

"Meg," Cas said, and Dean could feel the vibrations of it through his shirt. "This isn't you."

He said it like it wasn't already too late.

"Yeah, you know, Castiel? I really gotta say it is," she answered flippantly. "Not like you paid enough attention to find out, though, right?"

Before Cas could answer, Alastair stepped forward, his knife slicing out of its holster. He brought it up to his face and ran the flat, blunt sides along his bearded cheeks. "Dean, Dean, Dean," he sang. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but aren't you supposed to be dead?"

Dean heard adrenaline pumping through his ears, and he really couldn't decide whether he wanted to fight or run. Apparently, he opted to fight. "Yeah, guess you better finish the job next time."

If it even were a job to him. Dean figured Alastair would only get paid once Dean was dead, but there was something other than a professional guarantee glinting in his eyes. He was a sadistic bastard. He didn't like that one of his victims had gotten away. Something told Dean that Alastair wouldn't stop coming after him, payday or not.

"Don't mind if I do." He held the knife out, spinning its point with a few flicks of his wrist in Dean's direction.

Even though Alastair was still feet away, Cas stepped in front of Dean like a barrier—chest out, shoulders straight, chin up. "Stay away from him," he warned.

Alastair gave a humming sound. "Now, see, you've put me in a bit of a pickle, Castiel. I really shouldn't lay a finger on a Novak. But, then again, you are in my way—and your brother may even thank me once he finds out what you two have been planning. So, what do you think? Should I kill you?" He put on a fake bashful voice. "You don't think Michael would be mad at me, do you?"

Dean very nearly shoved Cas out of the way to rip Alastair apart.

"Hang on," Meg called. She hadn’t moved. "You said you were after Dean. Novak has nothing to do with this."

Was she serious? She was negotiating for Cas _now_? Jesus, was this really all about petty jealousy? Like Cas would just go back to her once Dean was out of the picture. Is that really what she thought was going to happen?

"Yes, I do," Cas gritted out, simmering.

"Oh, fine. Have it your way, princess," Alastair said. "I'll be sure to leave the Novak boy alive." As he stepped even closer, a smile slithered onto his face, and the dull light caught on his yellowed teeth. "He may wish he was dead though."

He lunged forward, knife first, and before Dean could even react, Cas' elbow had connected with his gut. A sharp pain went through him as he was knocked to the side, out of the way. When he caught his bearings, he realized Cas had sidestepped out of the way of the knife's point.

Alastair spun slightly to lunge again, and Cas blocked his outstretched wrist with his arm. Cas managed to get a punch in before Alastair kneed him in the stomach, causing him to double over with a grunt.

Dean rushed forward, a hell of a lot less elegantly than Cas moved. Cas fought in a stylized way—the way he'd learned in his various weirdo classes over the years. Like a teacher was going to pop out of nowhere and correct his form if he went off script. Dean, on the other hand, learned how to fight on playgrounds and in bars. He barreled into Alastair, being sure to grab his wrist tight so he couldn't move the knife, and shoved him backwards. The aim had been to knock Alastair on his ass so Dean could pin him down and punch him, but it didn't work out like that. Alastair only stumbled a few feet backwards before regaining composure.

When Alastair charged forward again, he let out a primal yell, slashing his knife. Dean guarded himself with his arms, and cried out when he felt the knife cut through the skin on the back of his hand. There was a hot sting as blood oozed out.

He ducked out of the way of the next blow, and swung left to clock Alastair hard in the jaw. Alastair reeled back again, and shook his head out. He spat blood to the side onto the frozen grass.

"Fiestier than last time," he complimented.

Dean shook out his fist, ignoring the blood and the pain and his sore, bruising knuckles. "Gotta impress the missus." His eyes barely flickered over Alastair's shoulder, where Cas was coming up from behind.

"Your mother was a feisty one, too," Alastair said, and Dean instantly went cold.

He wanted Alastair dead. He wanted him bleeding. He wanted him to feel it.

He'd never wanted to kill anyone before, and this urge—it was kind of scary, to be honest, but he couldn't even think of that now. He just let the hatred spur him on and Alastair goaded, "But I tired the bitch out nice and proper after a while. You think you got more stamina, Dean?"

Dean shook his head. "Tell you who does though—."

Cas slammed his hand down on Alastair's shoulder and whirled him around. It must have caught Alastair off guard, because Cas punched—and he punched—and he reeled back and punched again, and Dean saw Alastair's neck snap back.

When Cas let up, Alastair stumbled, looking like he may keel over. Dean came up from behind him and kicked his shin, making him fall. He kept kicking, aiming for his spine, reveling in the broken sounds escaping his throat.

"Dean, that's enough," he vaguely heard Cas say, but Dean didn't listen. He just kept kicking. The whole world narrowed down to his boot slamming into Alastair. He wanted to stomp down on his face, to make sure that smug smile could never stretch his cheeks again.

"Dean!" Castiel bellowed, and grabbed Dean by the elbow, ripping him away mid-kick. Dean's foot connected with air, and he had to stumble to regain his footing. He wanted to yell, to shove Cas away, but Cas held him firm and looked at him sharply in the eye. "We'll take him to Billie."

And maybe that was a good idea. Alastair was proof, after all. He was proof about what the Novaks had done, but what about after that? He'd go to trial? Go to jail? Even if they threw him in the deepest hole, he'd still be alive. It was too good for him.

Why did he get to live while Mary was dead?

While Dean had to move around the country? Steal and lie and cheat and do awful, stupid, terrible things to put food on the table? To live without his parents? To raise his little brother? To not be able to go to school and have a normal life? A normal childhood? Why should Dean have all this crap shoved on him his whole life? Why did Alastair deserve to keep his life?

Cas’ hand came up and rested on Dean's chest, and Dean felt himself settle fractionally. "Dean, please." He was practically begging. And why wouldn't he? All this started because he didn't want Dean to go to prison. If Dean killed somebody, it would all be for nothing. He'd be locked up for the rest of his life.

He looked back into Cas' big, sad eyes, letting them calm him. And then Meg shouted, "Wait!" And Dean felt something go through his foot. It didn't get very deep, the leather of his boot taking the brunt of the damage, but it took a half a second for the pain to kick in. But, when it did— _hell_.

Dean yelled, his knees buckling as Alastair pulled his knife out of the toe of his boot. He didn't even realize he was on the ground until he felt the cold, wet grass chilling and prickling his cheek and forehead. Belatedly, he realized Cas had shouted his name.

He heard the wet sound of knuckles on bone, and then a thud, and there was a choked sound. And gagging. Dean felt like he was in tunnel, but he was starting to get used to the pain in his foot. He looked up, and saw Alastair had somehow managed to get Cas on the ground, too. He was on top of him, hands around his throat. Cas fought back, kicking and thrashing and bucking to get Alastair off of him. Alastair only doubled down.

"No!" Dean called out. He put his palms under him and pulled himself up, his foot spiking again when he tried to put pressure on it. He had to get to Cas.

And then someone came up behind Alastair, a cry sounding from her as she jammed something between his shoulder blades. Meg jumped back, leaving the knife buried hilt-deep in Alastair's back. He instantly let go of Cas, and gave a loud, pained shout that bounced off the trees and rattled against the metal fence around the baseball field. It echoed through the dug out.

Cas kicked Alastair off of him, causing him to crumple to the side. He writhed and groaned and moaned as he tried and failed to get the knife out of him.

Cas got to his feet a little shakily, a little weakly. When he stood up as tall as he could, his eyes lifted up to Meg. She was standing completely still, like she was shocked. And, thank god for her. Dean never thought he'd ever say it—but thank god for Meg Masters.

Cas panted a little, sucking in breaths to steady himself. There was fury and malignance and a small speck of gratitude about him, and then he looked to Dean.

"Dean," he gritted out, and rushed to Dean's side as steadily as he could. He put Dean's arm around his shoulder and helped him to stand, and Dean grunted at the aches and pains that were cropping up. He kept his bad foot off the ground, and leaned on Cas for support as they stood.

He looked at Cas, who had a little bit of blood dripping out of his hairline, and his neck was red where Alastair’s hands had been. Below them, Alastair had stilled. He wasn't even whimpering, and Dean thought he might be dead. But his chest was rising and falling, and he'd probably just passed out.

"You should probably call the cops, huh?" Meg said, seeming to come back to life. She ripped her eyes off Alastair. "And I better get the hell out of here."

"Come with us," Cas said, and he was just way too forgiving. Dean thought he was crazy. Sure, she'd just saved them, but she was also the reason they were in this mess.

"Yeah, right. And risk him coming after me," she said, backing up. "Or worse—your brothers? No way."

Dean heard Cas' throat click as he swallowed, and he was relieved when he nodded. "Where will you go?"

"Maybe my mom's for a while," she answered, her voice going up at the end like she was just guessing. She turned around and started walking off, and then paused. She looked back at them and said, "Watch the foot, Dean. And watch out for the angel."

Dean let out a breath, not really knowing what to say to that. His arm still supported by Cas, he felt Cas' shoulders drop, and the two of them watched Meg disappear.

And that was it. Would you look at that?

Dean won.

///

From the driver’s side of the Impala on the road, Castiel watched the red and blue lights from the police cars and ambulance flash blinking shadows across the grass. He squinted, trying to see the blur of uniformed officers as they walked back and forth between the scene of the fight and the cars. A few people from the houses across the street were standing on their front porches, shoulders hunched and arms wrapped around their cushy robes as they nosily looked on. Others watched from the yellow-lit warmth of their windows.

Dean was inside the open backdoors of the ambulance, and Castiel could just make out Billie standing cross-armed just outside the truck as she questioned him. Alastair had been taken away a little under an hour ago inside another ambulance, a cop car trailing after it. Before the police arrived, Dean told Castiel to hide out in the Impala so no one would know he was there. He probably didn’t mean for all of this to take so long, but Castiel didn’t know what he’d been expecting.

He was growing antsy just sitting there, wondering what Dean was telling Billie—what truths, what lies. He wondered how Dean’s foot was, if he was seriously injured, if Dean was being difficult in insisting he was fine. He wanted to be with Dean, to make sure he was alright.

This was his fault. He’d trusted Meg, no matter how misguided, despite Dean’s warnings. If Dean were hurt because of him, Castiel would never forgive himself. In fact, it would just be another addition to the list of things he’d never be able to forgive himself for when it came to the Winchesters.

Eventually, Billie walked back to her car, her silhouette trudging in front of the strobe lights. Castiel watched Dean, every line of his body sagging with exhaustion, carefully get out of the ambulance. There was a blanket over his shoulders, and he ripped it off and tossed it back inside. Someone inside handed him a clipboard, and Dean barely glanced down at it before signing it. It was likely some kind of form that said he was choosing not to go to the hospital of his own free will.

The cops and paramedics began closing up and getting back inside their respective vehicles. The nosey onlookers drifted back inside their homes, and their lights switched off. Dean was walking across the park, and he was favoring one foot. As he hobbled past the baseball field, Castiel realized he was squeezing his fists at his sides and gritting his teeth.

When Dean was close enough, Castiel opened the door and got out to meet him the rest of the way.

“What happened?” he asked, holding his arm out for Dean to take. He should have known better, because Dean just swatted it away.

“Told ‘em Alastair was the guy who burned down Harvelle’s. I spotted him at a bar and tailed him here, then we fought. I got the drop on him,” Dean said, voice rough as he grimaced. He made it to the Impala, and put his hand on the roof to support himself as he lifted his bad foot. Castiel noticed there was a bandage wrapped around the foot, the top of it peeking out over his boot. He had a gauze taped to his hand where Alastair had cut him, too.

He pressed his lips together. “You didn’t tell them about Meg?”

Dean huffed. “I shouldda . . . but no. Figured I’d give her a head start.”

Castiel knew better than to ask why. Instead, he said, “How’s your foot?”

Dean frowned and shrugged. “Fine. He didn’t get me that deep. Didn’t get any tendons or toes or anything, so it should heal up. Probably’ll have a scar, though.” He forced a smile. “Guess that leg has all the luck.”

Castiel wanted to tell him that he didn’t mind Dean’s marred skin, still with its fading scars from the fire and now this. But he didn’t think it would help.

“Now, let’s go. Where’re my keys?” he asked, already holding out his hand.

“Maybe I should drive,” Castiel offered, and Dean snorted out a laugh that was almost offensive. Trying not to bristle, Castiel said, “I mean it. You’re in no condition.”

Dean’s tone was short but riddled with humor when he said, “Cas, I’m not letting you drive my car.”

“Well, I’m not letting you drive it, so either you allow me behind the wheel or you lean on me as we walk home. Your decision.”

Dean balked for a second, but he must have realized it because he snapped his jaw closed with a grumble. “Fine,” he muttered. He kept his hands on the top of the car as he guided himself carefully around to the passenger seat. Castiel didn’t offer to help, knowing he was already pushing his luck.

He got back into the car and turned the keys, already in the ignition where he’d left them. When Dean slid in, he was slightly out of breath, but Castiel didn’t comment on it.

“Just . . . be careful,” Dean huffed.

Castiel rolled his eyes. “No, I’m going to purposefully crash. I feel we haven’t had enough brushes with death tonight.” He ignored Dean’s glare. “Put your seatbelt on.” He reached down to fashion his own.

Dean let out a bark of laughter. “Yeah, okay, _mom_.” He didn’t put it on.

“Dean.”

Dean blinked at him, like he hadn’t thought Castiel was serious. When it dawned on him that they weren’t moving until Dean complied, he let out a loud sigh as if Castiel were asking him to accomplish some herculean feat. Still, he put on his seatbelt. “Happy?”

“Yes.”

Castiel put the car in gear, and turned towards the Winchesters' neighborhood. He ignored the fact that Dean was watching his every move like a very nervous hawk, and he tried not to become too giddy with the feeling that, reluctantly or not, Dean trusted him with his most prized possession.

///

Castiel woke up to a pained kind of moaning. It was a soft noise, subtle and low. He thought he was imagining it at first. But then it was followed by a whimpering sound, and he blinked his eyes open in a sudden rush of adrenaline. Dean was laying next to him, on his back with his arm slung over his torso. His other was clutching the blanket around his hips.

It was past four in the morning and, when his eyes adjusted to the darkness, Castiel saw Dean’s brows pinched together and his eyes skewed shut as tightly as they could go.

Dean grunted, like he was calling out for help—calling for someone to pull him from the depths of his nightmare. “Mom—.” There were tear tracks running down the side of his face.

Castiel’s chest knotted at the sound of Dean’s voice, the heartache and desperation. Dean sounded so small. He reached up and touched his palm to Dean’s jaw, hoping to sooth him. “Dean. You’re dreaming.” He pulled himself up by the elbows and gripped Dean’s shoulder with his other hand, trying to shake him awake. “Dean.”

Dean took in a deep breath, and his eyes shot open. He lifted his head quickly off the pillow, blinking wildly, still on his guard. And then his eyes came into focus as they latched onto Castiel’s. He settled, and his head fell back down. He hummed slightly, as if testing whether or not he was in control of his own body.

Castiel didn’t want to ask what he’d been dreaming about. He was nervous Dean might shut down. It wasn’t the first time he’d awoken to Dean having a nightmare, but it wasn’t often. But he certainly had never spoken during any of them. That was a first. “Dean?”

Dean closed his eyes again, squeezing them tight before letting up again. “Just a bad dream,” he said, as if Castiel couldn’t determine that.

“You were calling for—,” Castiel said before he could stop himself fully. He probably shouldn’t bring up Dean’s mother.

Dean’s eyes slid back towards him, and his face softened somewhat. “I was dreaming about the fire,” he whispered, his voice husky with sleep. “It was at Harvelle’s, but my mom was . . .” He shook his head, thinking better of it. “Forget it.”

Castiel didn’t know what to say to that. He slid his palm up and down Dean’s jaw, feeling the scratch of his stubble. “It was just a dream,” he said, even though it hadn’t been. Not really.

“Yeah,” Dean croaked out.

Castiel pecked a soft kiss to Dean’s jaw. He snuggled closer to his side and wrapped his arms around Dean’s midsection to comfort him. Dean rolled onto his side to press their chests together. “Go back to sleep, Dean,” Castiel told him, and laid a kiss to the bridge of his nose. “I’ll be here.” He wouldn’t leave. He’d watch over Dean all night to ensure the monsters in his head stayed at bay.

It wasn’t as if Castiel blamed him for bad dreams. After all, Dean had gone through an ordeal with Alastair. But he hated to see Dean so scared, even now.

Dean made a sleepy sound, smacking his lips, and nuzzled his cheek against Castiel’s hair. His voice was muffled, but he said, “Love you.”

Castiel went rigid, all other thoughts dropping from his mind. Tentative elation began to bloom in his chest, but he fought it back, because Dean was on the cusp of sleep and he probably hadn’t meant it.

As if Dean could hear Castiel’s turbulent thoughts, he said, sounding a little more awake now, “I know what I said.”

A slow smile crept onto Castiel’s face. He buried his face into Dean’s shoulder, grinning against the skin there. He wanted to laugh. He didn’t know what else to do with all that happiness. He just kept holding him, his arms tightening somewhat around Dean’s back, and Dean seemed to relax as his own hold around Castiel strengthened. Eventually, they both drifted off to sleep.


	23. Chapter 23

Everything was dark and still. The thin blue light of the moon came through the stain glass windows on one side of the church, pulling the statues of Saint Jude and the Virgin Mary out from the shadows, adding texture to the glossed, grainy wood of the pews. Prayer candles emitted a soft orange glow from the opposite wall. The draped curtains of the confessionals hung open. The smell of incense was ever-present in the carpeted floors. He could almost taste wine on his tongue.

Castiel really wasn’t certain why he’d gone there, especially so late at night. He wasn’t even sure he believed anymore—at least, not in the church’s teachings. But there were three days left until the fair, and with every passing hour, his disquiet anticipation ratcheted up higher and higher in his chest. And he was out of options.

Perhaps it was the years of Catholic school. Perhaps it was the Sunday masses. Perhaps it was the lessons and the healthy amount of guilt and fear seated deep within himself like DNA, passed down through the generations from the blood of Rome itself, but being inside a church always made him feel calm. Not rested. Not at home. But calm. Reflective, in a way.

And, right now, he was reflecting on his life—every decision that had been made for him, every choice he made for himself, everything that had led him to Dean Winchester. And everything he was about to give up, to shatter—for himself, for Dean and Sam, for the town.

He looked down at his hands folded in his lap, as if in prayer, even though he wasn’t praying. Not really. He wondered how much damage two hands could cause.

He glanced up again, his eyes trailing along the stations of the cross on either side of the nave, on the tabernacle with the eternal flame flickering behind glass before it, until his eyes rested on the statue of the crucifixion above the altar. He wondered if anyone ever died for his sins, if they ever saw him coming.

And he wondered if everyone felt this way. Like a Russian doll. Layers upon layers. Who he used to be, who he was, who he should have been or could yet be. The things he knew now, and the things he once believed. All the things he couldn’t bury deep enough, and all that had found their way through the cracks. Mostly, he wondered if he’d ever get to the piece at the very center, to the heart of him, to the person he wanted to be.

Dean had gotten there before him, in almost no time at all.

Would he find it after his family was gone? After he’d betrayed them? Was there another way?

He didn’t know what to do. He’d been so resolute, so pragmatic. But now the time was upon him, and he needed to know if there was another path that didn’t lead to ruin. A path where he could save everyone, to find a solution.

He opened his mouth and drew in a breath as if to speak. Whatever he was going to say died in his throat, and he realized every word he’d ever uttered with in these walls held no real meaning, because he’d spoken them too many times, like a machine.

_Lead us not into temptation . . ._

_I have sinned through my own fault, in my thoughts and in my words, in what I have done and what I have failed to do . . ._

_I believe in the Holy Spirit, the holy Catholic church, the communion of saints, the forgiveness of sins . . ._

He couldn’t even remember learning those words. They were as automatic as breathing; except, he’d never felt them in his chest.

Even before he met Dean, he’d been falling for so long that he’d been half convinced he’d never hit the ground, but gravity was collecting its due, and it was finally time to land. And he was afraid.

But the statue on the cross offered him no guidance.

So he stood up, running his hand briefly over the hymnal in the back of the pew, feeling its dried and cracked pages. He wouldn’t find his answers in a book, nor would he find them in an empty church. He left.

He would do what he had to do.

///

When Dean got home from the garage that night, he found Sam kneeling on the floor between the couch and the coffee table, his head dipped to keep his phone wedged between his ear and shoulder and his laptop out in front of him.

“Yeah, yeah,” he said into the phone as he threw a look over his shoulder. There was something stern in his eyes that made Dean pop his brows in question. “Hey—hang on, Charlie, Dean just got home.” He motioned for Dean to come over as he shifted his phone into his hand and set it on the table. He said to Dean, “Michael opened up the hard drives.”

Dean didn’t bother to take off his jacket before rushing over and sliding in next to Sam. He peered at the computer screen, which appeared to be opened up to an email.

“Charlie, you’re on speaker,” Sam said into the phone.

“Hey,” Charlie’s voice came in over the line, and she sounded a little exhausted, but still with her usual perkiness.

“Hey,” Dean told her. “What am I looking at?”

It was Sam who answered. “There are a bunch of saved emails on the drive.” He minimized the top window, and it revealed another one behind it. “They date all the way back to like—2002. It’s Michael talking to Raphael, Azazel, hell there’s even a few from Chuck Novak with instructions.”

“Instructions for what?” Dean asked. He scanned the email, trying to make heads or tails of it. There was a list with a bunch of fifteen-letter words, and various figures measured in grams next to them. Realization dawned over Dean before Sam even answered.

“It’s about the narcotics,” Sam said, a breathless smile in his voice. “There’s gotta be like, a zillion emails here back and forth from a ton of different people.”

“Yeah, and that’s not even the best part,” Charlie chimed in. “There’s a bunch of attachments, too. Like, production schedules and stuff. I even found some plans to extend into other towns. All of them have Michael’s name on them.” No wonder she was tired. She must have been sifting through this crap all day.

For a while, Dean could only stare blankly, eyes moving back and forth across the screen like he was waiting for the information to evaporate. It felt too good to be true, but there it was in black and white. He let out a laugh. “Holy shit.”

“Tell me about it,” Sam said, his smile evident now. “Dean, this is half our case right here.”

“There’s nothing about the murders on there,” Charlie told them, but Dean didn’t care. He was counting this as a win. Finally.

“Doesn’t matter,” he said. “Charlie, you’re awesome.”

“I know.”

Dean clapped Sam on the shoulder and shook him a little, both of them grinning widely at each other for a couple of seconds. “I gotta call Cas,” he said, hauling himself back up to his feet as he fished his phone out of his pocket. He felt light and bubbly. Maybe it was too soon to celebrate, but he was being optimistic. “He’s gonna be friggin’ thrilled!”

“Thanks again, Charlie. I’m gonna keep looking through these,” Sam said, turning his laptop more fully towards him so he could focus.

“Yeah, thanks, Charlie,” Dean added as he scrolled through his phone.

“Anything to bury those assholes,” she said, and Sam snorted before they said goodbye.

Dean was already holding his phone to his ear, listening to the line trill, antsy as he bounced up and down and waited for Cas to pick up.

///

Castiel felt his phone buzzing with an incoming call in his coat pocket, and cursed in a hissing breath as he scrambled to shut it up. He pressed closer against the wall, his phone screen lighting up the darkness as he saw Dean was calling him. He declined it with a huff, because it wasn’t as if he could talk right now. When the screen faded away, he scrolled through his apps before finding the voice memo one and then slid the phone back into his pocket.

Before him, the moon was sparkling on the lake down the hill. Castiel peered over the corner of Raphael’s house, where he'd found a hiding place around the back of the garage and waited. When he’d arrived, the lights were still on within the house, and he saw Raphael through the window, sitting in his parlor and reading the paper. Bartholomew had been visible in the kitchen, but he would be leaving soon enough.

It was only a few more minutes until one of the three garage doors rumbled open, and Bartholomew’s silver Acura backed out. Castiel moved back into the shadow behind the wall, making himself as still as possible so he wouldn’t be noticed. His heart rate kicked up a notch, knowing it was now or never. He’d have to be quick about this.

The car turned around and began rolling forward towards the gate. As it did, the garage door whirled and began to go down. Castiel kept his back against the wall until he no longer could as he moved around the corner of the house, the terrain under his feet shifting from grass to asphalt. He rushed into the garage as quickly as it could, leaping over the motion sensors that would stop its decent if they detected him. He was able to breathe a little easier once he was inside, and the door settled closed behind him.

Even the light of the moon was blocked now, and Castiel blinked into the silent, cold garage until his eyes adjusted. He saw the vague outline of Raphael’s Mercedes to his left, and the door leading into the house to his right. He made for the door, and opened it as quietly as he could, just enough for him to slip through into the back hall. The button of his shirt snagged on the wood. He closed the door just as softly, and then paused to ascertain whether or not Raphael was walking around.

There weren’t any sounds coming from the nearby pantry, and he didn’t hear footsteps coming from upstairs. Hoping his brother was still in his parlor room, Castiel tiptoed ahead, staying close to the wall, the fabric of his coat whispering against the clean white paint. He’d only been in Raphael’s home a handful of times, but he had a general idea of the layout. The kitchen, breakfast area, and laundry room were on the same side of the house as the garage, and then there was the foyer, the parlor and dining room on the opposite side. He was less familiar with the upstairs, but he knew how to get to Raphael’s study, which was all he needed. There was no back stairwell leading to the second floor, and the open concept of the foyer meant he’d be exposed to the parlor as he ascended the stairs.

He crept forward, going from the large chrome kitchen into the breakfast area. He peered around the doorframe into the foyer, and squinted towards the parlor. Raphael was still in there, his back to the stairs. He cleared his throat as he turned the pages of the paper, and Castiel could hear them rustling.

He straightened up, pressing the back of his head against the wall and willing his heart to stop the storm brewing in his chest. He regulated his breathing, and allowed his nerves five seconds to overcome him before shutting them down.

He moved into the foyer, going as swiftly and quietly as he could under the yellow light of the high up chandelier. He paced up the carpeted steps, keeping his footfalls light. He kept one eye on Raphael, and he was three quarters of the way up the flight of stairs when one creaked underfoot.

His breath caught, and everything in him froze. He looked down at the offending stair, his foot still on it. He was afraid to take it off, as if he’d just stepped on a landmine.

Praying to whatever deity that would listen, he cast his gaze back to the parlor. Raphael remained unstirred. Castiel let out the breath trapped in his chest slowly through his teeth. Tentatively, he lifted his foot off the stair, and place it back down on the next. It was silent.

He kept moving.

The light in the study was off when he got there, and he kept it that way, electing not to draw too much attention should Raphael come upstairs. The moon was bright enough as it streamed through the windows overlooking the lake, and he walked through the patterned pools of light painting the floor as he paced towards the bookshelf.

There were hundreds of books there, an entire wall of them, and he couldn’t possibly go through them all. He couldn’t even reach half of them without climbing the ladder. He picked out the one directly in front of him—a hefty volume of a judiciary journal. He opened it, flipping through the pages, and found it innocuous. If Raphael were hiding anything in these books, it would take hours to find it.

He turned instead to the desk, and tried the top left drawer. Locked. Castiel pulled again, just to make sure it wasn’t sticking. Something inside it rattled.

“The key’s beneath my copy of the _Brothers Karamazov_ ,” a deep, dulcet voice came from the doorway. Castiel jumped, eyes going wide as his head snapped up towards the sound. Raphael was leaning against the frame, still in his suit, as if he’d been there for a long time. “Hello, Castiel.”

“Raphael,” Castiel said, a rock forming in his throat. He tried to look calm, as if he were meant to be there. He wasn’t certain how he was going to finish his sentence when he said, “I was just—.”

Raphael held up a palm to quiet him. “I don’t,” he said, tone clipped, “want to hear any of your excuses. God knows there have been enough over the years.” He straightened out, and paced into the room, the silvery moonlight glinting off his skin as he passed through it. His eyes were malicious. “What are you doing here? The truth.”

Reflexively, Castiel wanted to stand up straight. He let his shoulders sag instead. Briefly, he wondered if there was still time to make a break for it. He knew that wasn’t an option. “I know everything, Raphael,” he said. “About the drugs, and—and Alastair.” Without meaning to, his voice dropped somewhat. “What he tried to do to Dean.”

Raphael’s expression remained blank. “I see,” he said after a moment of contemplation. “And what exactly were you hoping to achieve by breaking into my home?”

“I was looking for proof.”

Nodding, Raphael hummed. He came level with Castiel on the other side of the desk. “If you found this alleged proof, what was your plan for it?”

For a moment, Castiel stood still, staring him down. There were a few ways he could answer. The truth wasn’t one of them. He decided on, “I was going to take it to Michael. He has to know what you’ve done.”

“To Michael,” Raphael echoed, deadpan. “Tell me, Castiel, do you truly believe he’d take your word over mine?”

“Yes.” He didn’t really. But he enjoyed the way his brother’s face flickered with simmering fury.

Raphael collected himself momentarily, and he said, “Then indulge me this—you came here expecting to find physical evidence of a crime you say I’ve committed. Here. In my study. The first place anyone might look. Do you really think I’m that stupid?”

Of course, his real question was, _are_ you _really that stupid?_

Castiel leaned forward, his hands flat on the top of the desk, and kept eye contact. “Do you really want me to answer that?”

In an instant, Raphael gave in to his anger. His face twisted, and he stormed around the desk to grab Castiel by his arm. He yanked him hard, making Castiel lose some of his footing, and then pivoted to push Castiel to the floor between the desk and the window. Castiel landed with a thump, a pain shooting through his elbow where he hit the hardwood.

“I am _tired_ of your constant, blatant disrespect,” Raphael admonished, standing over him. “You believe yourself to be so high and mighty, brother, but you are nothing other than an arrogant, perverse, deceptive, petulant child. The only thing you can be relied upon for is disobedience.”

Castiel pulled himself to his knees and glared up at him. “Bite me.”

Raphael kicked him hard in the gut with the toe of his polished shoe, and before Castiel knew what had happened, he was groaning on the floor, cheek stinging and pressed to the wood. He wrapped his arms around his torso as if it might help the pain flaring through him each time he moved.

“Pathetic,” Raphael told him. “Everyone always expected better from you, and each and every time, you proved them wrong. And yet, Michael wants _you_ to be his equal?” He kicked again, sending another white-hot explosion through Castiel’s body. He thought maybe one of his organs had dislodged. “Why? Because our father wanted it? Because he chose a _child_ over me? Father isn’t even here anymore! If he were, maybe he’d think differently. Maybe he’d give a damn!”

Another kick.

Castiel’s vision swam, the shadows cast by the ornate windows crisscrossing before him. He tried to focus on Raphael’s pant legs.

“You’re undeserving. And you’re no leader,” Raphael continued on in his tirade. “All you’ll do is fail, like you’ve always failed. You’re bound to screw it up.”

“Screw what up?” Castiel croaked. It took more effort than it should have to get the words out.

“Our family’s business.”

He tried his best to lift his chin so he could look up at Raphael’s face. He hoped his expression was defiant as he asked, “ _Which_ business?”

Another kick.

Castiel’s eyesight whited out for a split second, and when he came to, he was coughing. He spat something out, and was relieved when there wasn’t any blood mixed in with his spit.

“All of it—the company, our hold on this town,” said Raphael. “You’ll lead us to ruin, and you’ll think nothing of it. Not as long as you come out unscathed. Let this serve as a reminder—,” he kicked again, like it was an example, “I will not let that happen.”

It took a moment for Castiel to realize that Raphael had stepped back a few paces, and he’d gone silent, apparently done. Castiel rolled onto his back and panted up at the ceiling. Every muscle in his body was pounding like a heartbeat. His eyelids were heavy, and he tried so desperately to keep them open.

“Don’t think Michael won’t hear of this transgression,” Raphael threatened, and Castiel assumed he was talking about the breaking and entering, not beating Castiel within a few inches of unconsciousness. When Castiel gathered enough strength to slide his eyes over to Raphael, his brother was straightening out his tie and fixing his suit jacket. “Now. Get out.”

Castiel didn’t think Raphael would allow him a moment to recover. It took effort, and he wanted to give up halfway through, but he put his elbows beneath him like anchors and managed to sit up. Slowly, he put one hand on the floor and incrementally got to his feet. He was still partially doubled over, one hand cradling his bruised ribs. He felt sweat on his brow, and his breaths were struggling, every one of them causing a dull spike of pain in his stomach.

He saved an iota of his strength to glower at Raphael, who glowered right back.

Castiel turned, and walked out of the study, gritting his teeth against the pain. The stairs were worse, and his knuckles were white against the railing as he tried not to jostle too much downward. Perhaps the only thing keeping him upright was defiance.

He pushed through the front door, and didn’t allow himself to stop until he got to the end of the driveway. Stumbling down the road, he used the gate around Raphael’s yard to keep himself upright. He didn’t dare look up at the house to check whether or not his brother was watching him.

When he got to the neighboring yard, he thought maybe he was safe. He collapsed onto the grass beside the curb, and laid perfectly still as to not exacerbate his wounds. There was a hitching in his chest that felt like a tire had left a skid mark inside of him as it spun out. His insides were magma. All he wanted to do was cut himself open and scoop them out. He thought he should call an ambulance, but he needed to get to Dean—even though Dean wouldn’t be happy with him for not discussing his plan first.

He didn’t know how much time passed before he inched his way into his pocket at pulled out his phone. His voice memo app was still open, and it was still recording.

He ended it, and played it back just to make sure he’d gotten it all. He had to scrub forward at first until Raphael’s voice sounded—but it was there, a little muffled, but there.

He had to get down the road, out of the development, to the bus stop.

He had to get to Dean.

///

The first thing Dean noticed when he opened the door was the dark circles under Cas’ eyes. His skin was waxy and discolored, and there was a cut high up on his cheekbone. He was doubled over, clutching the doorframe.

Dean’s eyes went wide, and his hands automatically flew up to grab Cas by the shoulder, because he was holding his ribs and looked like he was about to crumple. “Cas? What the hell?”

“I got the recording,” he said, his voice rough and raw.

Dean had no idea what he was talking about, but he couldn’t care less right now. He shepherded Cas into the apartment and led him to sit down on the couch. Cas sighed as he settled into the cushion, and he closed his eyes like he was about to go to sleep.

Dean went to the bathroom and wet a washcloth with warm water, and brought it and the a couple Band-Aids from the medicine cabinet back out into the living room. He sat down on the coffee table in front of Cas, and looked him over for any other cuts and bruises. His arm was still slung over his torso like he’d fractured a rib. Forcing down panic, Dean gently placed his hand on Cas’ thigh, and Cas blinked his eyes open. A soft smile came to his lips, like he was trying to tell Dean he was okay.

“C’mere,” Dean said, leaning forward to pat the cut on Cas’ cheek with the washcloth. Cas hissed slightly at the contact, but he didn’t make a move to stop Dean. “Wanna tell me what happened?”

“It seems Raphael has some issues he needs to work out,” Cas told him.

Dean tried to control his blistering anger at the mentioned of Raphael’s name. “Yeah, looked like he worked them out on you.” He opened up a Band-Aid and set it over the cut, taking care not to press too hard. “What the fuck happened?”

Cas took in a few deep breaths, and his voice was gravel when he finally got out, “We were running short on time. I—I went to Raphael’s house to get a confession.”

Dean’s eyes snapped up, blazing. “You what?”

Cas looked at him steadily, or as steadily as he could with drooping eyes. “I made him believe I was searching for evidence but I knew he’d find me.”

Dean shook his head, teeth on edge. “Dammit, Cas, you shouldn’t’a—!” he started, voice rising as he was about to lecture him about coming to him first; because, not for anything, but Cas coming up with plans and not filling Dean in on them was kind of their whole problem. He thought they were past this.

But then Cas let out a simpering grunt, and eked out, “Dean, please. In the morning.”

Dean settled, suddenly guilty. Cas was right. They had other things to focus on.

He drew his attention to Cas’ hand wrapped around his side and covered it with his own. “Can I see that?”

Cas nodded, and swallowed. Dean lifted Cas’ arm away by the wrist and worked on unbuttoning his shirt.

“Don’t you wanna hear the recording?” Cas asked.

Dean shook his head. “Wanna make sure you don’t have a broken rib first.”

When the shirt was open, he tugged the ends out of Cas’ pants so he could push it to the sides. The left side of Cas’ torso was blooming in blacks, blues, and purples. It looked like it hurt. Carefully, Dean pressed his finger into it, feeling for any broken bones. Cas grunted in pain, but Dean was satisfied that it was just a bruise.

“Doesn’t look like anything’s broken,” he said. “You woulda jumped ten feet in the air when I touched it if it was.”

“Maybe I just like you touching me,” Cas gritted out.

“Yeah, quit flirting.”

Cas let out another deep, strained breath. He said, “Dean, I’m fine. Besides, it was worth it.”

Dean wasn’t so convinced on either one of those points. He regarded Cas for a second, and then stood up from the table and pressed his lips to Cas’ face right under the cut. It was stupid, trying to kiss it better, and he really didn’t know why he did it. He guessed he just wanted Cas to know that he didn’t have to get the shit kicked out of him because he felt like he owed it to anybody—least of all Dean.

Cas hummed gently into the kiss, so Dean leaned down more and lined his ribs with his mouth, careful to stay away from the tender spots. Cas exhaled shuddering breaths as Dean continued to peck at his skin, and he placed his hand on the back of Dean’s head, fingers tangling in his hair. Dean knelt down between his knees and trailed Cas’ skin until every inch of his torso was covered.

When he looked up, Cas was peering down at him, and his breath was coming out in short, sharp bursts. Dean really wanted to keep going, but now wasn’t the time. Cas was hurting, anyway, and Dean didn’t want to accidentally make that worse.

“You should get some sleep,” Dean told him, picking himself off the floor. “Stay here tonight.” He offered his hand to Cas to help haul him up, and Cas winced a little, moving slowly, but he managed to get to his feet just fine.

“Okay. Thank you, Dean,” Cas said, not looking him in the eyes.

Dean helped him walk to his bedroom, taking it slow, even though Cas tried to swat him away a few times, insisting he was fine. When they got there, Dean shut the door and went over to his dresser to get them some clothes to sleep in. The bottom drawer was still broken, and he doubted he’d be able to fix it, so there was just an empty space where it should have been. He pulled out the second to last drawer and fished out some t-shirts.

Cas grunted as he shrugged out of his shirt, and Dean was there in a second to help him. When it was off, he made Cas raise his arms so he could put one of the t-shirts on him. It got stuck on his head, and Dean yanked it down to messed up hair and a grumpy expression that made him chuckle. As he dressed himself for bed, Cas toed out of his shoes and carefully took off his pants, and Dean half-watched him the entire time in case he needed help.

They settled in bed together, and Dean pulled the covers over them. Cas was on his good side, facing Dean, and Dean rolled into him, snuggling in close. He rested his hand on Cas’ hip, and Cas put his on Dean’s cheek, stroking it with his thumb a few times as if Dean were the injured one.

It was easy, comforting—just being close to Cas. Falling asleep with him. Dean was suddenly sure that he wanted this, and for the first time he knew he’d still want it in the morning.

He leaned in and pressed a chaste kiss to Cas’ lips, and Cas responded like they still kissed each other goodnight all the time. When they pulled away, Cas smiled and brushed the tips of their noses together in an Eskimo kiss. Then, he wrapped his arms around Dean and tucked himself into his chest. Dean put his chin on top of Cas’ head, comforted by the soft curls tickling his skin and the familiar coconut scent of his shampoo.

As he listened to Cas’ breaths even out, he realized that was the first time since their break up that they’d kissed for no reason at all—not as a means to an end, not to make out or get off, not out of lust or wanting or comfort. Just a simple, casual kiss before ending the day.

Dean felt the corners of his mouth tug up, a slight flutter in his chest. He pressed his lips to Cas’ hair, and closed his eyes to sleep.

///

"Dean, I mean it. I'm fine."

Dean tried to shove the ice pack back against Cas' stomach, but Cas dodged out of the way to avoid it. Dean's eyes flickered up briefly to the stove, where the bacon he was cooking was sizzling in the skillet but not yet browning, so he figured he had some time. He brought his attention back to the bruises on Cas' side. They looked worse than yesterday now that they had some time to sit, and some of them were even turning an ugly yellow around the edges. Two on his ribs had bloomed so big, they made one super-bruise. That had to hurt. But Cas was nothing if not stubborn.

He tried again, and Cas wiggled out of the way again. "Dean!"

"Cas, come on!" he shouted, frustration getting the better of him.

"Dude, he's right. Those look nasty," Sam offered around a bite of yogurt from across the table. Cas pulled his t-shirt back down self-consciously, and shot Dean a glare daring him to try to lift it up again.

"They're fine," he insisted, and shifted a little to reach for the bag of granola. He winced.

"Oh, yeah, looks it," Dean grumbled. His hand was starting to numb around the ice pack.

Cas shot him another look. "At least Raphael didn't injure anything important," he said, gesturing to his face. "I thought you'd be glad about that."

Dean scoffed. "Uh, disagree. I saw that bruise on your ass in the shower."

Sam let out a dramatic groan, giving the bitch face as he shoved his bowl of yogurt away. "Dean, come on—."

While Cas was distracted pouring his granola, Dean pounced. He grabbed the bottom of Cas' shirt and shoved the ice pack up in the general area of the super-bruise. Cas yelped from the cold. "Dean!"

"Keep it there!" Dean ordered. When he was sure he'd worn Cas down, he let Cas hold the ice pack and went back to the bacon to take it off the heat.

"Seriously, Cas. You sure you're feeling okay?" he heard Sam say softly as he plated the bacon.

Cas sighed. "Yes. It's not that bad."

Dean rolled his eyes, but it was better to move past it.

He brought his bacon back to the table and pulled a chair closer to Cas before plopping down on it. "So, what d'you think, Vinny Gambini, we got a case?" he asked, munching on his food as he nodded his chin in the direction of Cas' phone on the table in front of Sam.

They'd all listened to the recording a few minutes ago. He’d pretty much had to white knuckle it through most parts, because hearing Cas get the shit kicked out of him wasn’t easy to listen to. He felt rage bubbling up from deep inside of him, making his jaw hurt with the epic dental bill he was wracking up from grinding his teeth so hard. He wanted to rip Raphael’s heart out.

But he forced himself to stay in the room no matter how hard it was to hear, and Dean had to admit, it didn't sound too promising. It definitely wasn't worth the bruises, but he was hoping there was something they could use. They were running out of time, so it'd have to be good enough.

Sam took another bite of his breakfast, chewing thoughtfully. After he swallowed, he said, "Honestly?" _Great_. "I dunno. Raphael doesn’t deny anything, but he doesn't mention anything specifically either, so I don't think it'll do much to help our case."

"What?" Dean said, tone short, even though it wasn't Sam's fault. "Cas got his ass beat for this."

Cas let out a sound of protest, but let it go. He said, "But when we pair it with the other evidence we have? It's bound to raise suspicion."

"Yeah, but the town isn't gonna see the other stuff. That's for the police, right?" Sam said. "And, if the police do decide to make that public, that might not be for months. We need people to get angry now if this is gonna work. Alone, the recording might raise some eyebrows, sure. But it'll be easy for people to dismiss it."

Dean tossed the piece of bacon he was holding back down on his plate and sat back heavily, suddenly not hungry. He glanced over at Cas, who was looking down at his lap, eyes moving back and forth quickly and lips pouting like he was thinking.

"Fair's in two days," Dean reminded them, like that would somehow magically make the recording a substantial piece of evidence. But it didn't and the fact remained: "What we have is gonna have to be enough. Sure, we might not have the town on our side, but the stuff we have for Billie—."

"Billie's been at it for years, remember?" Sam said. "If the town doesn't put pressure on the police to deal with this, Evangelist could just bury it again."

“So, we put this stuff out on social media then! Wasn’t that an idea?”

“No! I told you, that could jeopardize its credibility as evidence.”

"So, we're screwed?" Dean asked, reading between the lines.

Sam's brows shot up, his lips puckering out as he shrugged out his hands. Yeah, they were screwed.

"Maybe not," Cas said, gaining both of their attention. He looked up, his eyes first going to Sam, and then he turned his head to meet Dean's gaze. "I think I may have a plan B."

More like plan Y. Dean was already suspicious. "Does this plan involve you getting more bruises?"

Cas scoffed out something like a laugh as he said ruefully, "Yeah, possibly. But it's a risk we need to take."

Dean popped his brows to show how he felt about that.

Sam leaned into the table, seeming open to at least hearing it. "Cas, what is it?"

Cas kept looking at Dean, seeming a bit unsure. Slowly, he said, "You'll have to trust me."

Dean's face hardened, but he felt his eyes flicker downward guiltily. Of course, he trusted Cas. He didn't even know why that was a question anymore. He thought Cas knew that.

He nodded, bringing his gaze back up. "What's the plan?"


	24. Chapter 24

Castiel had been at the park since 8 AM for last minute preparations and sound check. His eyes were burning with exhaustion and his limbs were stiff—not to mention the roiling in his stomach, which seemed to send waves of nausea to every point of his body down to his fingertips. He hadn’t slept a wink the night before, as his mind was far too occupied with everything they were about to do, all the consequences if it didn’t work, and all the consequences if it did. No matter what happened, what went right or wrong here, his entire life was about to change.

He was about to be cast out, about to embark on his own without a roadmap or guidance, without any plan whatsoever for the future. It was terrifying, the sensation that the ground might open up beneath him and send him spiraling downward, consuming him at any moment. It was thrilling, and it was lonely.

But he wasn’t alone. Around 4 AM, he’d called Dean, just to steady himself with Dean’s calming voice, and he was reminded that, no matter what happened today, Dean would be on the other side of it.

Castiel had twenty-eight minutes until he was due on stage, and the fair was already in full swing. The turnout was massive, but it seemed as if Benny and Andrea never ran out of food. If Castiel hadn’t known better, he would have thought they were miraculously duplicating the food like Christ himself. There had been live music, but the band was in the process of leaving the stage so it could be reset for the welcome speech. The fairgoers occupied themselves with games and merchant stands, alcohol and face painting. It was a beautiful, sunny day, crisp with a breeze and just warm enough that Castiel had to take off his coat, and considered removing his suit jacket, too. The trees were budding. The lake was sparkling.

All of it was a blur. There was such an over-stimulus of light and sound, and his focus couldn’t latch on to any one thing for very long. He was walking through the crowd, doing his best to smile at and greet any of the business owners and people he’d become acquainted to over the last few months. There were familiar faces from school and Evangelist, too. He did his best not to consider the fact that many of them may not have employment soon, and it would be his fault. He knew he should return to the pavilion to prepare, but he’d been going stir-crazy. He felt like a caged animal in those walls, and needed to clear his head.

It didn’t help that Balthazar had been trailing him for the past ten minutes, continually asking him if he were certain he wanted to go through with this, if this was the best option, if there was another way. Castiel had asked himself those same questions so many times, he’d lost count. But there was no other way, not that he could see, not that his brothers couldn’t weed their way out of.

He pulled out his phone to check the time. Twenty-five minutes. There was a text message from Dean, saying he’d arrived. Castiel texting him back, telling him to meet up near the children’s playground.

Balthazar kept chattering the entire walk over as they slipped through the crowd, but Castiel couldn’t pay attention long enough to listen to what he was saying. He caught every other word—something about their apartment and the remainder of the semester, something about being worried that Castiel would have to live out on the streets. Castiel might have appreciated it if his stomach wasn’t in knots.

He stood by the swings, squinting in the sunlight as he scanned the crowd for Dean. All the faces were hazy, and he considered the fact that his eyesight was becoming worse with each passing day. Maybe he _did_ need glasses.

Blessedly, Balthazar had gone quiet. He was standing next to Castiel, rocking back and forth on his heels and blowing out his cheeks. It took him two whole minutes before he asked, one more time, “And you’re certain, Cassie? I don’t mean to be a nudge, but . . . this is your future we’re discussing.”

Still unable to spot Dean, Castiel’s eyes slid to his friend, assessing him briefly. Balthazar appeared relaxed, as he usually did, but there was something about him as he looked at Castiel. Something genuine. It was strange. As open and honest as Balthazar was at all times, especially regarding the most taboo of topics, he was rarely genuine. Castiel narrowed his eyes at him. “I’m sure,” he said.

Balthazar pressed his mouth into a line, like it wasn’t the answer he wanted, but it was final. He looked like he might make one last ditch effort, but he was interrupted when Dean suddenly materialized in front of them.

“Hey,” he said, voice gruff. He looked tired himself, and Castiel felt guilty about waking him up last night.

“Dean, I don’t suppose I can talk any sense into _you_ , can I?” Balthazar asked, even though he already knew the answer.

Dean furrowed his brow, eyes shooting to Castiel in question before returning to Balthazar. He shifted his shoulders a little, as if rolling them out. “Huh? No. What?”

“Never you mind,” Balthazar said. He let out a giant breath, and clapped his hands together with a forced, cat-like grin. “Well, gentlemen. If you’ll pardon me.”

“See ya,” Dean told him, and Castiel said a quick goodbye as Balthazar shoved between them and walked back in the direction of the soundstage and pavilion.

“What’s his deal?” Dean asked, still half-looking over his shoulder to watch Balthazar go.

Castiel’s eyes, however, were fixed on Dean, focusing on the lines of his face, the curve of his mouth. He traced all of it with his gaze, and it grounded him, gave him something to hold on to. With a little steadier footing, he pulled out his phone again. “I should be getting to the pavilion. There’s fifteen minutes left.”

Dean looked back at him, brows popping and eyes wide. He dragged his thumb over his lower lip and nodded. “Yeah—yeah, okay. You good?”

It was a loaded question. Castiel nodded. “Yes.” He had to be _good_.

Slipping his hand in Dean’s, they made their way back to the pavilion. It was closed to the public, serving as a backstage of sorts for sound equipment and technicians. A few volunteers were there, too, clipboards in hand as they discussed a raffle and one vendor setting up their tent where it wasn’t supposed to be, as if it were the end of the word. It was a small hub, abuzz with activity. Almost as soon as they got inside, someone directed Castiel to the equipment table near the bathrooms to get mic’d up.

As they made for it, Dean updated Castiel on everyone else’s whereabouts. “Charlie texted a few minutes ago. Said she was able to hack into the feed, so we should be good.”

Castiel nodded to show he heard. He was relieved to hear it. Something had gone smoothly. With any luck, so would the other phases of the plan.

“And Sam and Eileen are looking for Billie. Don’t think they’ve found her yet—,” he pulled his phone out of his jean pocket, spinning it around when it came out upside down, and tapped the screen into life. “Nah,” he confirmed. “But they will.”

Sam and Eileen had been tasked with getting the print outs of the contracts from the law office, the phony hospital records, and the emails to Billie. Castiel pulled at his tie, sincerely hoping they’d find her soon. There wasn’t much time left.

“Cas, breathe,” Dean said, obviously seeing his nervousness. It was much stuffier inside the pavilion. “We got plenty’a time. They’ll find her.” He seemed awfully optimistic, and Castiel wanted to point out that they didn’t even know for certain if Billie were in attendance; but then Dean touched Castiel’s arm, and it settled him slightly.

“Okay,” he said, and decided to focus on his own part of the plan. He brought his eyes down to the table, full of wires and electronics. There was one clip-on mic attached to a transmitter box with masking tape on it. Castiel’s name was written in all caps with a sharpie on the tape. He snatched it up with perhaps more force than necessary. “Help me with this.”

He fed the wire down his shirt, and Dean helped him clip the box on his belt as Castiel attached the mic to his tie. He wondered if it would pick up how loudly his heart was hammering.

Dean stepped back, giving him the once over before muttering, “hang on,” and reaching up to fix Castiel’s collar. His knuckles brushed against Castiel’s neck, and Castiel closed his eyes to fixate on the fleeting touch.

“Alright, good to go,” Dean announced, and Castiel blinked open to find him beaming a beautiful grin. He couldn’t help but smile in return.

Then, Castiel’s eyes flickered to the clock on the wall nearby. Ten minutes.

“What d’ya say, Cas? Should I get into position?”

Castiel looked at him, letting his eyes drag up and down Dean’s face. Swiftly, he grabbed Dean by the shirt and pulled him in, smashing their lips together. Dean gave a soft gasp of shock at first, but then his shoulders relaxed into it. He wrapped his arms around Castiel, hands settling on his shoulder blades. He kissed back deeply, and Castiel wanted to get lost in it. This had been the first time all day that he felt at peace and truly certain about the task at hand.

When he pulled away, Dean chased him a little, and he swayed on his feet until his dazed eyes fluttered open. After a moment, he said, “Okay, then. I’ll take that as a yes.”

“I love you,” Castiel told him, because it was imperative.

Dean’s expression softened then. “Love you, too.”

Castiel smiled, butterflies flapping in his gut. “I’ll, um, see you later.”

“Yeah,” Dean said. He stole one more brief peck before letting his hands fall away. He shot Castiel a wink before spinning around and moving for the exit. Castiel watched him walk away, the bow of his legs, his gait, the rolling of his shoulders. When Dean was gone, Castiel tore his eyes away. He adjusted the transmitter box on his belt, and turned, meaning to make his way to the stage.

However, when he looked up, he froze, eyes going wide and breath catching.

Michael was standing on the other side of the room. His expression was taut, shoulders rigid, eyes murderous. Balthazar was hovering just a step behind him, and he looked almost remorseful.

That pit in the earth at last opened up under Castiel’s feet, and he fell right through.

///

As Dean walked out of the pavilion and into the sunlight, he squinted around at the crowd milling before him. Little kids scampered off to the fair games, people talked while stuffing their faces with burgers and fried chicken and po’boys.

Distantly, there were chants coming from the line of protestors, complete with poster board signs, being kept at bay by the cops over on the sidewalk. Jo was among them, ready to incite them further when the time was right—not that they really needed any more riling up. Dean almost smiled their way, because they’d get what they wanted soon enough.

Hopefully.

He hated this plan.

But he trusted Cas.

He walked in the direction of the soundstage, barely watching where he was going as he tapped a message to Charlie, telling her it was go time.

He texted Sam, too, asking if he and Eileen managed to find Billie. But then he guessed the answer didn’t matter, because there was a crackling of feedback coming from the giant speakers on either side of the stage.

Dean shoved his phone back into his jacket pocket, and ignored the weight that had been sitting like a brick in his stomach for the last twenty-four hours. He was trying to be optimistic, but it was really fucking hard.

He _really_ hated this plan.

“C’mon, Cas,” he muttered through his teeth, and knew, no mattered what happened, he wouldn’t feel relief until Cas was back at his side.

///

The moment Castiel regained his footing, he spun around and pushed into the men’s bathroom. Perhaps it wasn’t the best place, and maybe he was making a last ditch effort of escaping, but it was quiet and empty inside, and he briefly considered locking the door just to give himself more time.

He looked around wildly for something, _anything_ , that could help him. Perhaps there was still time. Perhaps he could turn this around.

But then the door swung open behind his back, and Castiel stilled. It was strange, the way the panic dripped off of him like water. He pulled his shoulders up straighter, and lifted his chin, and he could still feel Dean’s lips on his mouth, could still feel his hands on his shoulder blades as if they were wings. It made him calm.

“Castiel,” Michael said, voice already low with anger.

Castiel glanced up, and saw his brother’s reflection in the mirror. He’d never seen Michael’s eyes so dark. It reminded him of their father. He turned around. “Michael.”

Michael came forward, shoes clacking against the tile, his stride powerful, as if it could turn the earth. “I told you to stay away from that Winchester boy. I forbid it.”

In a moment of weakness, Castiel realized he’d backed up a little, his spine hitting the sinks. It was too late, but he urged himself to stay firm. “Dean Winchester is my friend.”

Michael looked like he wanted to laugh at that, if he wasn’t glowering so much. “He’s using you.”

Castiel wanted to say he wasn’t, that Dean was the only person who didn’t try to use him. Dean was the only one who accepted him for who he was, who made Castiel realize who he could be. Instead, he said, “He loves me. I love him. Why are you so against that?”

Scoffing, Michael’s hands twitched at his sides, like he was about to ball them into fists. “You’re naive, brother.”

“No, tell me,” Castiel said. He took a step closer to Michael, conscious of his posture. He had to stand tall. Shoulders back. Chest out. Like a soldier. “What is your issue with Dean?”

“He’s not suited for you. I will not sit by and allow you to be pulled into such fringe lifestyles. You’re better than that.”

Castiel knew what Michael had meant by _fringe lifestyle_ , but he played the fool. “You think he’s beneath us? Our family? Because he doesn’t work for Evangelist, or—or attend college, or have money? He’s a good man.”

Michael stayed silent. Castiel pouted, shaking his head in anger. He could feel fire in his veins, and he told himself to keep himself in check. He changed tactics.

“Or do you feel threatened by him?”

Michael narrowed his eyes. “Threatened? Tell me,” he moved forward. “Why would I feel threatened by a common criminal?”

Castiel tensed his jaw, staring his brother down. “The truth threatens you.” Michael blinked, so Castiel plowed forward. “What our father did to his mother. Mary Winchester. What Evangelist did. He had her killed, and you knew. And you—you tried to have Dean murdered. You’re the reason Harvelle’s Roadhouse burned down. Someone died that day. I know what you did, I just don’t know why.”

If Michael was surprised, he didn’t let on. Maybe Raphael had told him, after all. Maybe he’d been anticipating this. Castiel wondered if Michael would see right through him, if he’d figure out what they had planned. His heart rate kicked up again, pulsing through his entire body, but he kept his expression carefully stoic. He couldn’t let his nervousness on.

“As I said,” Michael began slowly. “You’re naive.” He came forward again, and Castiel had no choice but to back up until he was again boxed in against the sink. Michael’s voice was quiet, steady. “I don’t see how you can’t understand it, Castiel—that everything I’ve done is in the name of our family, to protect the legacy our father built.”

Castiel’s fists tightened.

Chest out. Like a soldier.

“What legacy? Of murder? Killing innocent people?” he spat back.

“Hardly innocent,” Michael lectured. “Do you think Dean Winchester is the only one who had to be scarified for the greater mission? He, his mother, all the rest of them—they became too close.”

“Close to what?”

“To compromising us!” He raised his voice then, frustrated that Castiel still couldn’t understand. He straightened, pulling at his suit jacket, and forced calm. “Evangelist must come first, are you listening? This town would be nothing without us. It’s the most important thing.”

No, it wasn’t enough. Castiel needed him to say it. He needed Michael to admit it.

“What are you so afraid of being exposed?”

Michael took a breath, hazel eyes scanning Castiel’s face like he was deciding whether or not to trust him. “You’ll understand in time, brother,” he said, “what needed to be done so that we could emerge as leaders in this community. That everything we have . . . it’s come at a price. Don’t play the fool, Castiel. I know you’re aware of what built our wealth.”

Castiel felt his lips fall open. He sucked in a breath, tried to reel himself in.

Chest out.

“The narcotics?” he said. “You’ve been using the hospital to pedal drugs.”

“And the money is filtered through the company, yes,” he confirmed.

Castiel heard his throat click as he swallowed. “Why?” he managed to get out.

Michael shook his head thoughtfully. “It’s a small price to pay. Think of all the good we’ve done.” Was that really his justification? When so many people had died? “Our father’s vision—.”

“Our father is gone,” Castiel told him, point blank. He allowed his disgust into his tone, because it was one thing to know all this—it was another to see Michael’s uncompromising expression, to know he truly believed what they were doing was right.

But now, Michael’s face was darkening again. “Enough,” he demanded. “You will fall in line, Castiel. You will stay away from the Winchesters, and do as your told.”

“No.”

The word nearly knocked the wind out of him.

Michael blinked, like he wasn’t expecting that. “What?”

“I said, no.” He moved into his brother’s space, because now it was Michael’s turn to back away. “I don’t care what you do to me. I will not allow you to control me anymore, and I won’t let you hurt anyone else.”

Michael’s eyes flashed, and his hand shot out to grab Castiel by the collar. He gripped tightly, and reeled him in as if Castiel were a ragdoll. “You will do as your told. I won’t say it again.”

“That’s alright,” Castiel told him, matching his stare. “You’ve said enough.”

A look of confusion passed Michael’s face, and then realization that he’d missed something. “Excuse me?” His fist slackened just enough for Castiel to extract himself. He backed up again, out of range in case Michael tried to retaliate physically. But Michael appeared frozen, eyes wide. “What did you do, Castiel?”

Castiel looked down. He brought his hands up, and plucked the mic off his tie. The wire pulled as he let it fall limply against the front of his shirt.

Michael had gone white. And then, in a flash, his face was flushed red. He pounced forward, hands grasping Castiel again and shoving him into the sink. The counter hit hard against Castiel’s spine. “What did you do?”

At this point, it really didn’t matter if Michael hit him. It was done. Everyone knew now.

The door to the bathroom opened as if on cue, and Billie filled out the doorway. She had a folder in her hand, filled with the photocopies Sam and Eileen had provided. There were two uniformed officers behind her.

“Michael Novak,” she said, coming into the bathroom. Michael’s grip only tightened, but Castiel wasn’t afraid. He thought, maybe, his brother was. “I’m placing you under arrest under the suspicion of murder and drug trafficking. Somebody slap some cuffs on this asshole.”

Michael still hadn’t let go. The two officers filed in, one of them taking the handcuffs off his belt. The other put his hand on Michael’s wrist, pulling him away until Michael got the message to release Castiel and comply. There was a low drone as the officer read off Michael’s rights, but Castiel barely heard it. His eyes were still locked with his brother’s, and he really wasn’t certain who would blink first.

Did it even matter at this point who did?

He blinked, and let his shoulders drop.

///

It worked.

Dean couldn’t believe it fucking worked.

There’d been so many moving parts, and he had to admit, he’d had his doubts. There was Charlie and Kevin hacking onto the mic feed to make sure no one could turn it off. Sam and Eileen getting those documents to Billie. Balthazar going to Michael, telling him that Cas and Dean were together, and leading him to the pavilion just in time to watch them make out in front of everyone. That way, Michael would be just fired up enough to corner Cas, so Cas could get him to spill the beans over a live mic for the whole town to hear over twenty-foot speakers.

That last part had been a stroke of genius on Cas’ part, not that Dean liked it at first. He was up all night worried that Michael would kick the shit out of him, but he trusted Cas to get it done—and Cas got it done and then some.

And it had fucking worked.

Dean couldn’t wait to see that idiot and kiss him silly.

But there was something else he wanted to see first, and that was Michael Novak getting stuffed into a cop car.

There was already a line of cars, sirens off but strobe lights flashing blue and red across the grass, around the sound stage. A crowd had formed. People had started drifting over pretty much the second Cas’ mic boomed over the speakers, with all chatter and laughter and music slowly ceasing as people realized what was going on. The protestors that had been lined up on the sidewalk had found their way in, and it seemed like everyone converged right in front of the stage. Uniformed officers were doing their best to keep order, but the angry mob was a few loud voices away from becoming a riot.

All around Dean, people were shouting out, demanding Michael show his face. Dean couldn’t help but think, if this were the Wild West, people would be looking for a hanging.

There were still some people who hung to the side, parents shielding their children as they looked on curiously. Some people shook their head, either because they didn’t want to get involved, or they were reserving judgment, or they were too brainwashed to believe the Novaks were anything but good.

The news reporters who were there to cover the event were standing in front of their film crews, speaking into the cameras. Others from the newspaper were snapping photos.

Dean pushed as close to the cop cars as he could, right up to the front of the line, where an officer was holding one arm out to keep everyone back while his other hand rested warily on his gun holster. There was a sudden swell of yelling coming from the entrance of the pavilion, and Dean’s head snapped in that direction. The officers down the line had doubled their efforts; and it didn’t look like anyone was willing to get shot that day, but that didn’t stop them from shouting as Michael was escorted towards the cars. A lot of people had their phones out to record videos and take pictures for social media as Michael passed them by.

He was walking tall, shoulders back and chin high despite the fact that his hands were in cuffs in front of him and two officers had him by either elbow. Billie walked behind him, seeming to keep an eye on him at all times just in case he managed to slip away from her.

But Michael kept walking forward, eyes fixed on his destination, never wavering, never stopping. Until he reached Dean.

Dean shot him a crooked, victorious grin, and was a hairbreadth away from shouting, _that’s for my mom, you son of a bitch_.

“Whatever misfortune befalls this town, and my brother, next—know it’s on you,” Michael told him, face blank and eyes almost sightless with controlled rage.

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean answered cockily. “Me and the rest of those meddling kids.”

Their conversation attracted the attention of a few people around them, but Dean didn’t pay them any mind. He was too focused on the satisfying way in which Michael was narrowing his eyes.

“When I get out of these,” he said, holding up his cuffed wrists, “I’ll see you in court, Mr. Winchester.”

He’d be lucky if he ever saw the light of day again.

On Billie’s word, the uniformed cops pushed Michael forward, one of them rushing around to open the back door to one of the cars.

Dean called after him, “Hey, not if I see you first, ass-hat!”

Michael scowled as the officer put his hand to his head and guided him into the car. Behind him, Billie paused, glaring into the window and making sure he was secured tight. Then, she looked over to catch Dean’s eye. Dean’s smile faded slightly when she nodded curtly at him, and then walked off.

The crowd was still slinging curses and insults, protestors were still waving their signs, as the car erupted with a warning siren and drove off slowly, tires jouncing on the grass.

Dean wanted to savor this moment.

But then he heard his name being called. He spun around just in time to see Sam elbowing his way through the crowd. Eileen was right behind him, their hands clasped so they wouldn’t lose each other.

Dean let out a loud, bellowing laugh off the look of excitement and pride on Sam’s face. When they were close enough, Dean grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him into a tight hug, ignoring the little “ _oomph_ ” sound of surprise Sam let out before settling in. When he released him, he clapped Sam on the back, and then turned to give Eileen a hug. She chuckled in his ear, and rocked him from side to side before they parted.

“Dude, can you believe this?” Dean shouted happily over the sounds still rising off the crowd.

Sam looked around, still smiling. “Yeah, I kinda can’t believe we pulled it off.”

“Right?” Dean couldn’t help it. He shot another look over his shoulder at the retreating cop car. “Man, I _wish_ I couldda seen the look on his face when they slapped those cuffs on him. I bet it was priceless.”

Sam threw his arms up like Dean was a lost cause. “Dean—,” he started, bitch face firmly in place.

But some girl nearby must have been eavesdropping, because she butt in with, “Hang on, are _you_ Dean? _The_ Dean? Like, from the speakers.”

Dean opened and closed his mouth, a little shell-shocked. Sam was already laughing. “Yeah, he’s _the_ Dean, alright.”

“You did all this?” the girl said, looking like the next thing she was going to ask him for was his autograph.

Dean rubbed at the back of his neck awkwardly. “Well, uh—I had the easy part. All I had to do was make out with my boyfriend.” As far as contributions go, he could have done a lot worse.

“Hey, be proud of your achievements, _the_ Dean,” Eileen teased, clapping him on his shoulder. Sam let out a bark of laughter. If Dean weren’t in such a good mood, he would have knocked his lights out.

But the girl’s eyes were lighting up, and she turned the guy next to her, grabbing his attention. “Max, this is Dean. From the thing.”

The guy, Max, looked over, bright eyes instantly going wide. “No way, _you’re_ Dean?”

Dean was gaping, suddenly overwhelmed, and that feeling only grew when other people started catching on. It spread like wildfire, and he heard his name overlapping in a hundred different voices as people jumped up and stood on their toes to catch a glimpse of him.

Dean was pretty sure he was bright red by now, and he quickly turned into Sam, muttering, “Okay, time to go.” No way he was about to become some kind of crap local celebrity.

But people were clapping him on the back, reaching out to shake his hand, touching his arms, generally invading his personal space as they tried to get more info out of him. Really, it was no fair, because Sam and Eileen should get the same attention. He tried to point that out, but no one was listening, and the two of them seemed happy to yuck it up at his embarrassment.

By that time, the cops had stopped trying to keep people back, and the crowd meshed together in a disorganized blob.

He looked this way and that, his tongue darting out to wet his lips nervously as he searched for an escape route. And then, across the lawn, he caught sight of Cas around the fringes of the crowd. He was facing in the opposite direction, shoulders slumped as he watched the cop car containing his brother bounce onto the street and head towards downtown.

Dean suddenly didn’t give a shit about anything or anyone else. He had to get to Cas. His heart was just about to rip itself from his chest from excitement if he didn’t scoop Cas up into his arms right now.

“Cas!” he shouted, but his voice was drowned out from all the cacophony. He held his arms over his head, waving them like an asshole. “Cas!”

“Hey, Cas!” he heard Sam’s voice boom, but Cas still didn’t hear them.

“Castiel!” Eileen pitched in.

“Cas!” that Max guy called, obviously having caught on. And then, all of a sudden, the about fifteen people in the immediate area were shouting Cas’ name.

Cas went rigid, everything about his stance suggesting confusion. He looked around, and sure enough, his forehead was pinched and his eyes were narrowed. Dean let out a whoop of laughter, and jumped up and down to get his attention. Cas’ face slackened, and a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Dean saw his name being formed on Cas’ lips, and really it was ridiculous. There was no way Cas—blind as a bat Cas—should have seen him, especially when he was packed like a sardine in the crowd.

But it was the damnedest thing, and Dean should have known by now: he could have been miles away, and Cas would still be able to find him.

He elbowed his way through the bodies, and Cas pushed into the sea of people to meet him. People seemed to get the message, because they all moved back as best they could to make room, and Dean was even able to half-jog the rest of the way to meet Cas in the middle.

He threw his arms around Cas immediately, holding him tightly as he felt Cas return the embrace like he was planning on never letting go. People were staring, but Dean didn’t really care. He leaned back, still keeping Cas in his arms, and quickly scanned Cas’ features for any injury.

“You okay?” he asked. “Dick didn’t touch you, right?”

Cas’ face softened, eyes sparkling in azure. “No, Dean—he—I’m fine. He didn’t do anything,” he assured. Then, his features went all serious. “Are you okay?”

Dean wanted to laugh. “Hell, I’m better’n okay! We did it, man. It’s over.”

Cas nodded, face still stern. “This part of it, yes.”

Dean felt a grin crack his cheeks. “C’mon, cheer up. We got what we wanted.”

Cas worked his jaw back and forth, and half-glanced over his shoulder where the cop car had driven off. “Almost. But, Dean, there’s still more that needs to happen. Raphael’s arrest. Not to mention the investigation. No doubt, we’ll be called in for questioning. I assume there will be a lengthy court proceeding, and—.”

“Cas.” Dean grabbed him by the chin, and gently turned his face back towards him. Cas’ eyes latched onto his, and he must have realized by now that Dean hadn’t been talking about the trial or investigation. That shit was out of their hands now. They were done, as far as Dean was concerned. He ran the pad of his thumb across Cas’ chin. He said, “Only want you, babe.”

Cas smiled then, big and gummy. Dean leaned in and kissed it. And, all of a sudden, there were cheers and applause and hollering. He really had forgotten all about their audience, and the reminder made embarrassment flare hot inside of him again.

Perplexed, Cas turned his head to look at the crowd like he was just now noticing them. “What the hell?”

Dean chuckled. “Fuck it,” he said, leaning back in to recapture Cas’ mouth. “Let’s give ‘em a show.”

He felt the vibrations of Cas’ laughter as he tightened his arms around Dean’s waist and kissed back.

///

The Impala’s brakes whined when Dean pulled over to the side of the road outside Castiel’s apartment building. The sun had gone down, and the streetlamps across the way were casting pools of orange on the tarmac below. Castiel looked out at the building, his eyes landing high up on the window of his bedroom.

He’d spent most of the day at the police station, giving his official statement, which he had already given three times at the park before Billie asked him to go downtown. Dean, Sam, and Eileen had all given their statements, too. Balthazar, Charlie, and Kevin were scheduled to go in tomorrow morning. As far as Castiel knew, Raphael had been arrested in his home; as had Naomi and Zachariah, but he assumed they would be released in a matter of hours.

He had about three dozen voicemails and texts from Anael, asking him what was happening, if he was alright, asking him if he knew anything; and then, when the news reporters’ stories got out, her messages changed. “I hope you’re happy,” she’d said in one of them, voice filled with spite and betrayal. And then another message hours later: “I hope you’re happy with him.” She sounded genuine that time, if not a little reluctant. She didn’t call again, and he assumed it would be a long time until she did.

There hadn’t been any messages from Uriel, but Castiel knew he’d been taken in for questioning. With any luck, he was honoring their deal by cooperating.

And now, it was over, and Castiel really didn’t know what to do with himself. There were so many options, it kept him frozen in place. And, at the same time, there weren’t any options at all. He really wasn’t certain what came next. But he didn’t want to go up to that dark bedroom by himself. He didn’t want to be alone.

“Cas,” Dean said gently, pulling him out of his reverie. Castiel turned around to look at him. “You okay?” Dean had asked that same question at least a hundred times that day, and Castiel didn’t know how many times he could answer _I’m fine_ before it truly sunk in for either of them that he actually was.

He let out a breath through his nose. “Yes, Dean.”

Dean nodded down at the steering wheel. “Well,” he said, pausing like he wanted to drag out the moment. “Maybe you should get some sleep, huh?” He looked up, eyes bright and hesitant. “I’ll call you tomorrow?”

Castiel didn’t want that. He didn’t want Dean to leave—not now, not ever again. He reached over and brushed his hand along Dean’s jaw, then leaned in for a kiss. Dean met him halfway over the seat.

For months, Castiel had been so afraid that Dean would reject him. He allowed Dean to guide their relationship, to make the rules. He suppressed his wants out of fear—but now he knew that Dean wasn’t going anywhere.

Maybe they could start over. Maybe this didn’t have to be the end of everything.

When the kiss broke, Castiel leaned back again and said, “I’d like you to come upstairs with me, Dean.” It was strange, because he wasn’t afraid at all. He knew what Dean’s answer would be.

Sure enough, Dean smiled, and he shined so brightly. “Thought you’d never ask.”

Dean shifted the car back into drive and drove around to the parking lot, and a rush of excitement lit Castiel up from the inside.

They made their way upstairs, kissing and hands roaming for the entire elevator ride. When the doors slid open, Castiel took Dean by the wrist and dragged him down the hall. Dean didn’t say much as Castiel unlocked his apartment and they went inside. He seemed uncharacteristically mellow, like he was holding back. Like he wanted Castiel to lead now.

And Castiel would.

He placed a kiss to the corner of Dean’s mouth and grabbed his wrist with both hands, walking backwards as he pulled Dean towards his room. Dean was smiling at him a little sheepishly, and Castiel wished he wouldn’t. He smiled back, so Dean would know that it was okay. They were ready for this. He wanted this. He wanted _him_.

Despite that, when they got inside the room, some of that nervousness he was surprised not to feel in the car twisted inside of him.

His heart was pulsing an erratic rhythm in his chest, but he listened past it, highly in tune to the swift, short breaths coming from Dean.

Castiel turned and closed the door slowly, one hand on the knob and the other placed gently on the wood. He turned the lock with a faint click, and let his pinched fingers linger around it. The nervousness turned into worry—unneeded, unnecessary, a gut reaction that he would have to unlearn. He stared down at it, feeling as if he should unlock it again and leave the room, leave the building, to go anywhere that Dean wasn’t.

He wondered if Dean was feeling it, too. If he was ready. He wondered if Dean wanted this.

Then, from the shadows of the room behind him, Dean’s low voice said his name. Dean’s chest was pressed up against him then, his arms coming around to wrap around Castiel’s middle. He dipped his head down and kissed open-mouthed down the side of Castiel’s neck; and Castiel, God help him, leaned into it all. He sighed, feeling his body relax against Dean’s, feeling at peace in the warmth of his embrace.

That was his answer, and the moment of age-old uncertainty ended. Everything else drained away like water through a sieve.

When Dean got to the collar of Castiel’s shirt, he stopped kissing him, and rested his forehead against Castiel’s shoulder. He stayed like that for a long time, his hold tightening. Castiel brought his arms up and rested them on top of Dean’s, one thumb stroking at the patch of skin just beneath where Dean’s shirt was rolled up to his elbows. He closed his eyes, content. He savored the idea that he could stay like this forever if he chose. They didn’t have to be afraid anymore. They didn’t have to look over their shoulders. They could stay just like this.

“Dean,” he said after a few moments.

He maneuvered himself around in Dean’s arms, Dean lifting his head up as Castiel turned to face him. The curtains of the window were open on the other side of the room, and the glow of a streetlight filtered in to paint shadows of tree limbs on the walls. By the low light, Castiel could see the outline of Dean’s jaw.

He brought his hand up and dragged his thumb over Dean’s bottom lip, and watched the way Dean’s eyes slipped closed. He felt Dean’s breath stutter. Castiel ached and ached.

His fingers hooked under Dean’s chin and lifted it up. He fished for his eyes, pinning down his gaze when he found them. He leaned in, his nose bumping against Dean’s. Dean brushed back. Castiel breathed out. Dean breathed in.

Dean sucked in a breath as if preparing himself, and then he sealed their lips together. And it felt like their first kiss all over again. Something ratcheted up in Castiel’s chest, feeling far too big for his body to contain. He kept his eyes half-open, watching Dean at the proximity as they kissed. He could barely pick out the freckles on Dean’s skin in the darkness, but he could see the way Dean’s brow was lined in concentration, the half-moons of his lashes fluttering against his cheeks.

Castiel slipped his eyes closed fully and focused on the kiss. Dean’s lips moved against his unhurriedly. His tongue brushed against the inside of Castiel’s mouth, and Castiel loved that. He loved the way Dean kissed, the steady pull of it, like wind over the mountains coming down to sweep through the tall grass of the planes.

It should have been rushed. It should have been harsh and desperate and rough. They should have been grasping hard and fast for any piece of each other they could greedily take as if, inevitably, they’d have to part again. That was what Castiel had imagined when his mind wandered to being with Dean again. He imagined a frenzy.

He had never imagined this.

Dean brought his hands up to undo the knot of Castiel’s tie, a frustrated sound coming from his throat when he fumbled. He never had been very good with the tie. Usually, he just yanked it loose enough to get it over Castiel’s head. The memory of it made Castiel laugh against his mouth, and it was a breathy thing that sounded too thick. He locked his elbows around Dean’s neck and pulled him in closer.

Dean brought his hands back down to Castiel’s hips and jerked him forward, walking backwards as he pulled Castiel towards the bed. Castiel followed easily, until the back of Dean’s knees hit the mattress. Castiel readjusted to wrap his palms around the bend of Dean’s shoulders to his chest and pushed him down gently to sit. Dean looked up at him, eyes sparkling and wide in the light’s reflection. They were flickering along Castiel’s face quickly, making Dean look small and lost.

Castiel reached for Dean’s over shirt and worked it down his arms until Dean had to shift to take it off completely. Dean hooked his finger into the back collar of his t-shirt and lifted it over his head. In the meantime, Castiel undid his tie completely, until it hung loosely around his neck, and his fingers fumbled as he went down the line of his shirt buttons. When it was open, Dean grabbed him by the belt and tugged, and Castiel got the message. He straddled Dean’s lap, and did his best not to shiver at the feeling of their bare skin touching.

Dean palmed Castiel’s shirt off completely, and Castiel let it fall to the floor, and then Dean set in. He mouthed against Castiel’s chest, leaving hot and wet trails on his pecks and teasing at his nipples with the tip of his tongue. Castiel gave a low groan, his chest instinctually pulling forward for more. Dean’s open palms were dragging heat tantalizingly slow up Castiel’s back, a steady ascent to his shoulder blades. The friction it caused made Castiel catch fire.

His fingers tangled in Dean’s hair, pulling his head in closer to encourage him to keep going as he massaged Dean’s scalp. Dean nibbled at his collarbone, licked a line down the center of Castiel’s chest. When he felt the graze of Dean’s teeth against his nipple, his breath tripped. His cock twitched, some blood rushing down towards it.

He cupped Dean’s jaw in his hands and lifted his face up. Castiel bent downwards, straining his neck and back, to kiss Dean’s mouth, his cheeks, his nose, his eyelids. Slowly, Dean laid back against the mattress, and Castiel lifted himself up enough for Dean to shimmy further up onto the bed. When he was situated, Castiel lowered himself back down, and Dean’s knees came up on either side of him. His arms wrapped around Castiel, hands reaching down to clutch the dip of his back. Castiel bent forward, bracing himself with one arm. He used his other hand to cradle the back of Dean’s head and lift him up to his mouth.

Beneath him, he could feel Dean filling out in his jeans. Castiel worked his hips in slow circles, and Dean soon started giving out deep noises from the back of his throat. He put Castiel’s lower lip between his teeth and pulled before bringing his head back down to the bed and gasping shallowly, tilting his chin upwards so the line of his throat was exposed and skewing his eyes closed in focus.

Castiel dipped down further to suck at the spot of Dean’s neck that he knew made him hot. Surely enough, Dean was soon writhing beneath him, his hips lifting up lazily as Castiel pressed down on him.

Dean’s hands gripped his thighs, rubbing up and down them before moving to Castiel’s belt and undoing his pants so he could slip inside. He held Castiel’s cock, thumbing circles over the head as it filled out in his hand. The muscles in Castiel’s shoulders tensed, and he pushed his hips forward into Dean’s hold, wanting him to work him. But his fist stayed loose, his touch teasing and delicate. And Castiel wanted him. He wanted him so badly that every inch of his body pulsed for him.

He breathed Dean’s name out against his neck over and over again as Dean smoothed his thumb through the gloss of pre-come and used it to stroke him. His free hand rounded Castiel’s hip, fingers settling into the crest of the bone and squeezing lightly.

Castiel picked his face up, needing more air than could be supplied against the humidity lifting off Dean’s skin. Dean twisted at the base of Castiel’s erection, and then his fingers went further down to press on his balls, and Castiel felt his forehead line with intense concentration to zero in on the sensation.

And then Dean’s hand lifted off his hip. He brought it up to Castiel’s face, and rubbed his thumb between Castiel’s eyes, down the bridge of his nose, to smooth out the lines there. A knot tangled in Castiel’s chest and wove itself together so tight he thought he’d need to pick it undone with a needle.

He couldn’t help himself. He bracketed his arm on either side of Dean’s head and bent himself at the elbows to lower his face down to Dean’s. He kissed him deeply, sucked on his lip and licked inside his mouth and felt the hot press of Dean’s tongue on his. Distantly, he was aware of the wanting sounds he was giving off, and Dean swallowed them all down. He jerked Castiel one more time before putting both hands on his back and guiding Castiel to lay down fully on top of him.

Castiel toed off his shoes, barely hearing them clunk as they slid off the end of the bed and fell to the floor. Dean palmed at Castiel’s sides and bunched the fabric of Castiel’s pants in his hands. He pulled them down, taking the underwear with it. He pushed them down as far as he could, midway on Castiel’s thighs. The scratch of Dean’s jeans was a shock against Castiel’s sensitive skin at first, but he didn’t mind much when Dean grabbed his ass and pushed him closer against him.

He kicked off his pants the rest of the way, feeling strangely exposed as Dean groped him while still half-dressed. Castiel thought it was time for Dean’s pants to come off, too.

He took his time. He kissed away from Dean’s mouth, down his chin and throat. He grazed his teeth against Dean’s clavicle and blew hot air onto the trail of saliva he left behind. Dean shivered beneath him, his whole body rocking with it. Emboldened by it, Castiel mouthed down his chest, working his palms in slow circles on Dean’s ribs all the time. He spent a good amount of time kissing Dean’s stomach, taking reverent care. Dean’s breath quickened, his stomach rising and falling against Castiel’s lips. He shifted a little, and Castiel didn’t know if he was trying to situate himself or if the movement was unconscious.

Castiel kissed down the fine hairs leading down to the hem of his jeans. He mouthed on the skin along the waistband, and then dipped his forehead down to catch his breath. He focused on the button and zipper of Dean’s pants and, when he looked up the length of Dean’s body, Dean was staring down at him with dark, heady eyes. Castiel undid his fly and bit by bit pulled down his clothes, moving backwards down the mattress as he took them all the way off. His gaze kept flashing between Dean’s face and his cock now curving heavily up to his stomach. He saw the way Dean’s fingers itched to touch himself, but he didn’t make a move to do so. In fact, he clutched at the bed sheets to prevent himself.

Castiel would get there soon. He told himself not to hurry, not to get impatient and skip right to the good part. Because he wanted this to last and last. He wanted to taste every inch of Dean, to reacquaint himself with Dean’s body and map out all his freckles and remember all this information forever.

He kissed his way up Dean’s shins, seeing his toes curl in the process. Dean’s thighs were flushed pink by the time Castiel began teasing at the fleshy inner sides of them with his tongue, and he parted his legs to give better access. He gave out a low, long moan, starting from his diaphragm and working its way up his throat; and he sounded so gone that heat flared in Castiel’s abdomen.

Castiel splayed his hands on Dean’s hips and kissed around the base of his erection and the joints where his hips met his legs. Dean’s hands flew to Castiel’s hair, tugging wildly at it. “Fuck, Cas,” he panted out. “Just—fuckin’—.”

He nearly lurched off the bed when Castiel licked a strip up the underside of his cock, but Castiel was ready for it. His grip tightened on Dean’s pelvis before he could spring up. Castiel took him into his mouth, relishing the feel of him heavy against his tongue. He bobbed his head down to take him in deeper, and hollowed his cheeks as he slid back off with a wet pop.

“Ah, c’mon, don’t—don’t stop now, babe.”

 _Babe_. Castiel felt the word like a punch to the gut.

“I won’t,” Castiel told him, pressing kisses to Dean’s hips between his words. “I’m not—done—with you—yet.”

A breathy, strained laugh fought its way up Dean’s throat. “Preview of what’s to come, huh?”

Castiel looked up at him, raising a brow. “Maybe.” He crawled back up Dean’s body, kissed his shoulder. “You’ll be coming.”

Dean groaned and tossed his head back against the pillow.

But Castiel meant what he said. He wasn’t done with Dean yet. He wanted Dean to know he was loved beyond measure, beyond reason.

He reached down and grabbed Dean’s wrist, bringing it up to plant a kiss inside it. He kissed the tips of each of his fingers in turn.

“You’re so corny,” Dean told him, but he was watching with rapt attention, and his expression was insurmountably tender. His voice, too, was raw. He twisted his wrist out of Castiel’s loose hold and turned it around to knot fingers together. He pushed his neck up, and kissed the cleft of Castiel’s chin. Castiel loved when he did that. He didn’t know why. But it made him feel wanted, safe.

And then Dean slipped his leg between Castiel’s, his thigh rubbing against Castiel’s erection. Castiel’s vision whited out momentarily. He rocked against Dean’s leg, seeking out the friction. Dean tickled his fingertips up and down Castiel’s back, from his shoulder blades to his ass. He chewed on his bottom lip, watching the way Castiel’s lips parted as he struggled for air.

Every one of his movements dragged sparks through Castiel’s body, and a tightening pressure was building up low inside Castiel’s gut. He grinded himself into Dean’s leg, lost in the feeling.

Dean flipped them with a rush that made Castiel dizzy. He lined up their hips and pressed down. A loud, aborted moan broke out of Castiel’s throat, and Dean did it again. Castiel wrapped his legs around Dean’s hips and chased the motions. They slid against each other, slow but hard, crashing into each other with audible slaps of skin.

Dean grabbed both Castiel’s hands and slipped their fingers together. He held them against the bed on either side of Castiel’s head, and Castiel gripped back tightly. Castiel stared up at him, drinking in the curve of his mouth and his shifting expressions; and then Dean locked eyes with him and he could focus only on the way they shimmered in the dark. He wished they’d had the presence of mind to turn on a light. He wanted to see the green of Dean’s eyes.

“Damnit, Cas, fuck.”

“Dean—don’t—Dean.” He didn’t even know what he was saying. He just wanted Dean to keep coming down on him, to keeping sending shockwaves throughout him until he was boneless and trembling. And he wanted more. He wanted to make love to Dean properly, to be inside of him so their bodies moved together, so they could come together. Some of the desperation he’d imagined happening filled him up.

“Ah, Dean, I—I want you,” he said, voice rough and wrecked.

Dean stopped moving then, and Castiel’s stomach dropped thinking he’d said something wrong. But then Dean slid down his body, his mouth moving quickly down Castiel’s torso. Castiel took in a deep, steadying breath when he realized what Dean was about to do.

Dean put Castiel’s legs over his shoulders, framing his head with his knees. He sucked on the skin of Castiel’s thighs, licked circles on his hipbones. He mouthed at his balls and kissed up his dick. Castiel squirmed under his ministrations, and reminded himself not to get impatient. But he wanted Dean’s mouth on him now, and he wanted to fuck himself down Dean’s throat.

He felt too hot, like his skin was burning, and his lungs were full of smoke.

Dean put his lips around the head of Castiel’s cock and swirled the tip of his tongue. Castiel groaned, and pitched his hips up to push himself further into Dean’s mouth. Dean took it in stride by sucking him down. His hands came up to wrap around Castiel’s thighs, holding them in place when all instinct told Castiel to squeeze them against Dean’s face.

Dean worked him up and down, his mouth hot and wet and his tongue doing amazing things whenever it came up around the head. He made slow work of it, and Castiel felt himself shaking with want. He watched Dean’s shoulders move as his head bobbed between his legs. And he was so beautiful and there was a pain in Castiel’s chest that longed for this—for Dean. To have Dean, not just his body, but his presence. And he wanted to cry, but he blinked back the prickling in his eyes and fought back the sobs wracking up his body.

He felt the muscles in his back and stomach pull taut, and his toes curled. He dug his heels into Dean’s shoulder blades. He was close. Dean must have known it, too, because he hummed around Castiel, the vibrations sending a wave of pleasure through Castiel’s body. He snapped his hips up to Dean’s mouth, and Dean sucked him down deeper until Castiel felt the softness of the back of his throat. Dean swallowed, contracting his muscles, and Castiel let out a sound so loud he was sure the people downstairs heard.

Dean’s name was circling through the space around them, and it was the only coherent thing Castiel could think. The only word on his mind, and the only thing that mattered. His orgasm rolled slowly up his legs and down from his arms. His body locked up and he closed his eyes tightly. He grabbed hold of Dean’s hair. His breath snagged, and he came down Dean’s throat, body shaking with pleasure the whole time.

When he fell back limply on the bed, Dean pulled off of him and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. The room was spinning, and Castiel needed to recover. He threw his arm over his forehead, the other loose across his stomach. When Dean came back up to lay beside him, Castiel was still breathless and dazed.

He looked at Dean out of the corners of his eyes. Dean’s face was flushed red and his lips and chin were slick and he was grinning smugly.

“Dean,” was the only thing Castiel could say. His teeth passed over his bottom lip, and he looked up at the ceiling and laughed. He felt light and bubbly, and more like himself than he had in a long time.

Dean kissed Castiel’s cheek, and he was still hard, poking into the side of Castiel’s leg.

Castiel rallied himself. He rolled onto his side to face Dean and kissed him soundly, tasting himself on Dean’s tongue. He pulled back, making Dean chase his lips. He sat back on his knees, and put his hand on Dean’s shoulder to guide him belly-down on the bed. He leaned into him to mouth at the back of his neck and at the freckles lining the broad line of his shoulders.

His hands smoothed down the V-shape of Dean’s back, along the flat expanse of him, and it felt like home. Dean tensed, moaning as his shoulder blades shifted backwards in a slow roll. Castiel dragged his tongue down the middle of them, cutting through the ridges of his shoulders like a river. He kissed down to the small of his back, peppering him with quick pecks. He kissed the swell of his ass and the back of his thighs, and Dean shuddered. He folded his arms on the pillow and buried his face into them. Castiel kissed the back of his knees.

He sat up again, hauling Dean up with him to a kneel. He pressed against the side of Dean’s body, one hand reaching behind him to spread Dean’s legs. The other smoothed up his chest and towards his mouth, fingers insistently tapping against his lips until Dean opened up and sucked three of them into his mouth. He swirled his tongue around them, moaning as he slicked them up. Castiel watched him with total focus, and he started to get aroused again.

He took his fingers out of Dean’s mouth and resituated himself behind him. His arm reached around to embrace his midsection, and the wet fingers of his other hand went between Dean’s legs. He teased at the cleft of Dean’s ass, moving the tips of his fingers to the muscle of his hole. Dean leaned back into him, parting his legs even more in the process.

Castiel slipped the tip of one finger inside, feeling the heat of his body, and Dean let out a wrecked sound. He worked Dean open slowly, watching as Dean circled his hips back on Castiel’s finger. Dean placed his arm on top of Castiel’s on his stomach, and laced their fingers together.

Castiel worked in another finger, making Dean hiss with delight and making his movements stutter before picking up again. He crooked his fingers, twisting them in and out as Dean’s body lit up with need. When he added a third finger, Dean practically tried to sit back against his hand, and Castiel thrust them back and forth to give him what he wanted.

He changed up his angle, and Dean cried out. Dean’s fingers tightened on Castiel’s hand, and he brought it down to his cock. Castiel fisted around it, stroking up one side and twisting his wrist at the head to stroke down the other.

Dean moved his hips back and forth, fucking himself into Castiel’s hand and onto his fingers as Castiel worked him from both sides. He dipped his head back to rest against Castiel’s shoulder, and Castiel buried his nose into Dean’s throat.

“Cas, Cas—wait. I want—fuck,” Dean breathed out, and it looked like it pained him, but his hands went down to wrap around Castiel’s wrist, to still his movement.

“What is it, Dean?” Castiel asked, his own voice sounding rough to his ears.

Dean lifted his head up and looked over his shoulder to meet Castiel’s eyes. His gaze flickered across Castiel’s face, wide and pleading and laid bare, until they landed on his lips and then settled back on his stare. “I want you to fuck me,” he said softly.

Castiel swallowed, his throat clicking. His heart had skipped a beat from joy and excitement at Dean’s words.

“If you want,” Dean added sheepishly, and how could ever think Castiel didn’t want to?

Castiel smiled, nodded. He leaned in and pressed a chaste kiss to Dean’s lips, and Dean let out a shaky breath, like he was relieved.

Slowly, Castiel removed his fingers from Dean, listening to Dean’s groan of protest, and he shuffled on his knees across the bed until he could safely lean over to his nightstand. He pulled out the drawer, fumbling around for the bottle of lube and the condoms he’d never thrown out, because hope was a funny thing. And hope had served him well this once.

His fingers brushed against something hard, but he ignored it for now. When he found what he was looking for, he went back to Dean, and put the condom down on the bed for later. Dean turned around on his knees to face him, and plucked the lube from Castiel’s hand. “You first,” he said, smirking gently as he uncapped the bottle. He squirted some into his hands, the sweet scent of the gel hitting Castiel’s nose as Dean warmed it in his palms.

Dean came forward for a kiss, and Castiel accepted it immediately with parted lips, their tongues rolling together. Dean reached down to wrap his hand around Castiel’s dick, and Castiel hissed into his mouth from the chill of the gel at first. But that was soon forgotten as Dean twisted and pumped him to make him hard again, and Castiel’s body responded to him immediately. There was a tingling of his skin at first, and a pressure pooling in his lower stomach, and he felt like a livewire in Dean’s touch.

He realized Dean’s other hand was gripping his hipbone, the bottle of lube still held between them. Castiel reached for it, without breaking the kiss, tapping Dean’s hand once to ask him to relinquish it. He warmed some up in his own hand and tossed the bottle to the side. He reached around Dean to work him open properly this time.

Dean gasped, breaking the kiss. His forehead dipped against Castiel’s, and they breathed each other in, Castiel still pitching into Dean’s fist and Dean rolling back onto Castiel’s fingers. The fingers on Dean’s opposite hand dug their pads into Castiel’s hip, and Castiel gripped Dean’s shoulder so tightly, he thought it might leave a mark.

When they were ready, Dean turned back around, staying on his knees. Castiel felt around for the condom, tearing it open when he found it and rolling it on. He pumped himself once, biting down on his lip as he slicked the condom with the gel still on his hand. Then, he sidled up to Dean, pressing his chest to Dean’s spine.

He laid a kiss to the ridge of his shoulder. “Are you ready?”

Dean took in an audible breath, and nodded. “Yeah.”

Castiel’s stomach did a strange kind of nervous flip, as if this were the first time they were doing this. In a way, it almost was. It was just the two of them: no doubts, no walls, no what ifs, no impending sense that all of this would be snatched from them at any moment. Whatever was to come, whatever was next, it was of their own making. And perhaps it would all fall down around them, but he prayed it wouldn’t. Because he wanted to build something with Dean. He wanted to build a life.

He placed his hands on Dean’s sides, and Dean blanketed them with his own, and he lined them up. His vision went a little dark around the edges as he focused on the sensation of sliding into Dean. He listened to the long, drawn out moan Dean keened out. He moved slowly, forcing himself to go inch by inch, no matter how badly he wanted to thrust out and sink back in. He pushed their bodies together until he was fully seated inside.

Dean’s fingers were latched around his, squeezing tightly, as Dean groaned and breathed. His body was shaking like a leaf when Castiel rested his forehead against the back of his neck.

He felt amazing, and it took all of Castiel’s willpower not to move, to wait.

“ _Dean_ ,” he gritted out, the word coming out in low rumble. He skewed his eyes closed, focusing on Dean’s tight heat. “ _Fuck_. You—you feel incredible.” He pressed his mouth to Dean’s skin. “You’re so beautiful.”

Dean let out a rough sort of laugh. “Alright, Casanova,” he said, voice scratched and raw in a way that made it very hard for Castiel’s to control his body; but lucky, he didn’t have to for much longer, because Dean said, “Let’s get going.”

Castiel didn’t need to be told twice. He pulled back halfway, then thrust back in, and repeated the motion. He varied his movements, sometimes sliding out almost fully before pushing in again, until they worked up a steady rhythm. He was aware of the low groans coming from his throat, but he could feel them in the scratching dryness of his mouth more than he could hear them. He was more focused on the frankly obscene sounds punching out of Dean. They mixed with choppy, panting breaths and the wet sound of skin coming together.

He was beginning to feel a little lightheaded with it all. He honestly wasn’t certain if he was speaking the words tumbling through his mind—about how much he loved Dean, and how he’d missed him, and how he’ll never want anyone else for the rest of his life. But Dean was letting out happy, laughing sounds, and at one point he eked out, “You’re _so_ corny.”

Castiel parted his knees a little more and shifted his angle, and Dean cried out when he slammed back in. It brought a breathless smile to Castiel’s cheeks, because that was the sound Dean made when he hit his prostate. He thrust again, trying to keep his angle, and he must have done a good job at it, because Dean let out another strangled noise, and his fingers tightened around Castiel’s.

With every pitch, Castiel tried to hit the same spot, and Dean rolled back against him. Their movements became quicker, and Castiel could soon feel sweat on his hairline. The heat in his stomach was burning, like someone had taken a match to oil on water.

He fought one hand out of Dean’s grasp to reach around him. He circled his fist around Dean’s dick, and stroked him as best he could in time to his thrusts. Dean’s fingers wrapped gently around his wrist, riding the motions.

“Yeah, Cas—yeah—fuck. You’re so fuckin’—,” Dean babbled. “I’m so close, Cas.”

Castiel tightened his grip around Dean’s cock as he jerked him, and slammed faster against his prostate. Dean was humming now, like he did when he was about to come.

Castiel’s movements were becoming harder to control, his body alight, toes curling beneath him. “Dean— _Dean_!”

Dean tensed up as he came, a low moan on his lips. He spilled out hot into Castiel’s hand, and Castiel jacked him off through the rolling waves of pleasure. During it, he could feel everything inside of him building and converging, until it all came falling down again. He had to sink his teeth into Dean’s shoulder, his orgasm hitting him hard.

Eventually, their bodies juddered and slowed to a stop, and Dean fell limp against him. It made Castiel lose his balance, and they both crashed down to the wrong end of the bed.

Dean was already laughing, a light and thick, lyrical thing that made his shoulders rumble as his back was still pressed against Castiel’s chest. It was infectious, even though Dean was heavy and it had hurt when he landed on top of Castiel, but that was mostly forgotten now. “Get off me,” Castiel laughed back. He shoved Dean upward, and at the same time pressed his hips down on the mattress so he could slip out of Dean.

“Alright, alright,” Dean said, and rolled off of him.

They rested side-by-side, feet kicked up onto the pillows and staring up at the dark ceiling as their breath caught up with them. The room was warm with humidity and smelled sweet with sweat, and it occurred to Castiel that this was probably one of the last nights he’d have in this bedroom. The apartment was paid off until the end of the semester, but that was it. He turned his face towards Dean, blinking at his profile—the point of his nose, the mounds of his lips—and wondered if he’d meant it when he offered his home to Castiel.

As much as Castiel wanted to share his life with Dean, he thought he’d like to have something of his own for a little while, too.

Dean rolled his head to meet Castiel’s eyes, and Castiel didn’t know how long they remained like that before Dean lifted the corner of his mouth into a smirk and said, “Somethin’ on your mind?”

Castiel snorted. “What could _possibly_ be on my mind? Today was incredibly uneventful.”

With another bark of laughter, Dean looked back up at the ceiling. He blindly smacked his hand around on the bed between them until he found Castiel’s hand. Then, he laced their fingers together tightly and brought them up to his lips to kiss Castiel’s knuckles. Still entwined, he rested them on his chest and gave a quick squeeze. Castiel’s heart felt a little too big for his body.

“I’m gonna go get myself cleaned up,” Dean said after a minute, looking like he was rallying himself. He let Castiel’s hand go, and sat up in bed with a slight wince. He looked down at the come drying on his stomach and tentatively poked a finger into it. Making a face, he rubbed his fingers together before wiping them on the bedspread. Castiel rolled his eyes as Dean said, as though agreeing with his own earlier statement, “Yeah.”

He got up and searched for his boxers, slipped into them, and left the room.

Castiel stared after him, watching the closed door for a few long seconds before getting up himself. He tied up the condom and tossed it in the trashcan near his desk, and then put on a fresh pair of boxers. When Dean returned, it was with a damp washcloth, and Castiel wiped the gel off his hands and passed it over his chest, too, just to get rid of some of the sweat.

Dean was making himself comfortable under the covers in the meantime, stretching and fluffing the pillows behind him until Castiel joined him.

And then Castiel remembered the box his fingers had brushed up against earlier. He said, “Oh, before I forget—.” He reached back over to his bedside table and pulled out the drawer, bringing out a small package and unceremoniously offering it to Dean.

Dean appeared skeptical. “What the hell is it?”

“Just,” Castiel told him, redoubling the offer with a raised brow, “ _please_.”

Dean shot him another look before plucking the box out of his hand. He faced forward, placing it on his lap, and balked down at it when he got a good look at the label.

 _Rolex_.

“I figured,” Castiel said with a shrug, “I might as well get it before I don’t have any money to spend.”

Dean gave a few broken, unsure sounds from his throat. “Cas—.”

“Open it,” Castiel told him, keeping his voice even despite the rising tide in his gut.

Dean blinked, fingers hovering over the box. Soon enough, he lifted the top off, and revealed a plain, uninteresting watch with a black faux-leather band that Castiel had picked up at Walmart a few days ago.

Dean laughed, and Castiel let a chuckle slip through, unable to hold it.

“Wow, Cas. You really went outta your way, huh?”

“I did.”

“You shouldn’t have.”

Castiel did his best to bite down on his smile for the full effect. But then Dean’s face went soft, and he lifted the watch out of the box to put it on. “Perfect fit,” he said, and the giddiness from the joke ebbed away inside of Castiel.

He nodded. “Perfect fit.”

That night, with Dean’s hand resting on Castiel’s thigh and Castiel’s nose tucked into the hollow of Dean’s throat, Castiel fell asleep knowing where he belonged. And, for the first time, knowing he could have it.


	25. Chapter 25

Castiel followed the masses of black caps and gowns through the concrete back corridors of the Phog as the graduates made their way out of the building to meet up with their families. Commencement had just ended, and there was a swell of excited chatter and laughter that ran up and down the hallway as the former students spoke about summer plans or where they were going for their celebratory dinners, or the like. In front of him, a girl who had decorated the top of her cap to say _Thanks, Mom and Dad_ in glittery letters was chatting with another girl whose cap read _I can take a nap now_.

As for himself, Castiel didn’t say much. When he saw a familiar face, they exchanged congratulations, but that was all. He looked down at the empty leather-bound diploma folder in his hand. His cap kept sliding to the left on his head, its tassel swinging and bumping against his cheek, and he’d unzipped his gown in hopes of lessening the effects of the dry heat that was beginning to overtake the Midwest. The ropes of various colors to symbolize his college program and the academic honors he’d received that hung around his neck were tangling together.

Eventually, he reached the line of doors leading outside, and the bright white sun was blinding as it seeped into the corridor. Castiel squinted as he walked through them, and glanced around at his fellow graduates farewelling one another and whipping out their phones to meet up with their loved ones. As he strolled by, he saw all of their faces crystal clear through the black-framed glasses sitting on his nose.

Castiel meandered through the groups of people spread out on the lawn in front of the Phog, many of them posing for pictures or embracing family members in their Sunday bests. Castiel didn’t have any of his relatives at his graduation.

Anael and Zeke had packed up and moved out to Los Angeles, where she said they were going to try their luck in a bigger television market.

Michael and Raphael were both under house arrest while the court proceedings continued. Even if they weren’t, Castiel doubted they would want to come to his graduation after what he’d done. The last time he saw either of them was a week ago, when he’d given his testimony before the jury. It had been awkward, and a little harder than Castiel had expected it to be when he tried to look Michael in the eye from across the room.

A few other arrests had been made in the last weeks, most notably Azazel’s. Meg’s involvement remained unknown, and Castiel wasn’t about to go to the police to implicate her. He’d keep his promise, even if she hadn’t kept hers. He heard that she had gone to live with her mother permanently in Kansas City. Perhaps all she needed was a fresh start. Perhaps she’d do well there. Castiel certainly hoped so.

Uriel had been too busy to make it to the graduation, too. He had his hands full with trying to sell the family house, and working with the investigators in handing over Evangelist’s data. He was cooperating, just like he said he would. As far as Castiel knew, the police were still in the midst of bartering a deal for Lucifer's cooperation, but he assumed that would come in time.

Lawrence was already feeling the effects of Evangelist’s fall from grace. Some businesses had folded, and others were struggling, but a new board had been formed to take over the company. It would be nonexistent in a few years as the businesses under its umbrella were broken up, but hopefully this would make the transition easier. With any luck, the effects on the town wouldn’t be as cataclysmic as Castiel had anticipated.

Like the fallout had been between himself and his siblings.

As for his father, nothing had changed. The police were apparently looking for him to bring him in for questioning, and Castiel wished them luck. But he didn’t expect his father would ever return to Lawrence now, if he had ever been planning to.

But that didn’t mean Castiel didn’t have anyone to attend his graduation. His family had been somewhere in the faceless crowd on the stands surrounding the graduation ceremony. They were on the lawn now, but Castiel didn’t know where.

He didn’t have to wait long to find out, because a very familiar voice shouted his name, and he barely had time to react before he was practically tackled to the ground by two strong arms wrapping around him. Castiel laughed, the happiness of his accomplishment bubbling to the surface as he embraced Dean back. He realized his cap had fallen clean off his head and he was probably stepping on it, but he didn’t care. He breathed in Dean’s scent as Dean pressed into him so closely, Castiel had to bend backwards to keep balance.

“Look at you, Benjamin Braddock,” Dean said as he pulled away, his grin stretching from ear to ear and his expressive eyes twinkling with pride. He was beaming so brightly from the inside out, one might think he was the graduate. He was dressed in a suit and tie, which he’d likely complained about getting into that morning, and Castiel felt something bloom inside of him at the thought of Dean doing that for him.

“Hey, Cas,” Castiel heard from over Dean’s shoulder, and looked up to find Sam and Eileen walking up to them, hand-in-hand. Sam took his hand out of hers to give Castiel a hug of his own, still welcoming but not as intense as Dean’s had been. Castiel was getting used to hugs. He wasn’t so stiff during them anymore. When the hug broke, Sam clapped Castiel on the shoulder and said, “Congrats, man.”

Castiel pushed his glasses back up his nose from where they’d been skewed from all the hugging. They slipped a lot, even though he’d gotten them adjusted. It was hard to get used to at first, constantly having to correct them, but it had become a habit and he sometimes found himself poking the bridge of his nose to fix them even when he wasn’t wearing them.

But it was worth it. He never thought he’d be able to see the world so clearly, and he didn’t know how he’d managed for so long without them. Besides, Dean seemed to like them. He said they made Castiel look like “a hot librarian.” Even more importantly, he was able to see every freckle on Dean’s face and every fleck of gold in his eyes, and that was something Castiel simply would not do without now that he had it.

“Congratulations, Castiel,” Eileen said, smiling widely at him, and it was infectious.

“Thank you,” he told them both, signing it for Eileen as he spoke. He didn’t know much ASL, but he’d picked up some from her and Sam over the last year and a half.

“Let’s see it,” Dean said excitedly, not waiting before snatching the diploma folder out of Castiel’s hand and opening it. His face fell in confusion and disappointment. “Uh, I think they forgot something,” he said.

“They don’t give you the real diploma on graduation day. I'll receive it in the mail,” Castiel told him.

“That’s crap!” Dean exclaimed, and he looked like he was about to stomp back inside and demand they fork the real thing over right away.

“Dude, that ceremony was already three hours long. You want it to be longer so they can make sure everyone’s getting the right one?” Sam defended.

Dean rolled his eyes. “Whatever. Guess we’ll just have to hang it up later.”

It was a nice thought, but Castiel didn’t really know where he’d hang it up. Over the last few weeks, he’d been packing up his apartment into bags and cardboard boxes, but he still didn’t know where he was going to live.

“Doesn’t matter,” Dean went on, his smile growing again as he met Castiel’s eyes. “My babe’s a college graduate.” Quite suddenly, he slapped the leather folder against Sam’s chest with a dull sound. Sam gave a soft _oof_ upon impact, his hands automatically flying up to grab it. Dean wrapped his arms around Castiel again and unexpectedly dipped him backwards so quickly, it made Castiel’s whole world spin.

But he didn’t care so much, because Dean was kissing him, and Castiel responded instinctually. His hands came up to grip Dean’s shoulders, mostly just to touch him but also for support. Not that he was afraid of falling. He knew Dean would catch him.

So, he kissed back, ignoring the wolf whistles and cat calls of the people who walked by as well as Eileen’s delighted laugh and Sam very pointedly clearing his throat. What did it matter who saw them? Castiel was allowed to have this.

When the kiss broke, they both straightened out, and Castiel tugged at his gown and tie to fix them. Dean ducked down to pick up his cap from the grass, and smacked it a few times to brush off the dirt.

“Anyway, Charlie, Gilda, and Kev are already at Bobby’s place,” Dean told him. “Ellen and Jo are on the way. Donna texted a little earlier and said her and Jody would bring the kids by. So, we better get going if you wanna make your own graduation dinner.”

Castiel nodded, something ballooning in his chest at the thought of all his friends and family coming together for a meal.

The four of them started walking towards the parking lot, Sam and Eileen leading as Dean threw his arm over Castiel’s shoulder and reeled him in close. Castiel cozied up to his side, and took in the masses on the sun soaked lawn. Sweat was beginning to bead on his hairline and collect in the dip of his back, but he was oddly comfortable. The world smelled like freshly cut grass and, from this proximity, Dean’s earthy scent.

“How you feelin’?” Dean whispered to him, and Castiel glanced at him briefly before pondering the question.

He hadn’t really been able to determine his emotions. He was feeling a lot at once, and for the first time, he didn’t try to repress any of them. But the day had been bittersweet in a way. He was leaving something behind—some structured, neat world where he knew his place and had a regimented schedule, where he could fall in line. And now? Now, anything was possible. It was daunting and exhilarating and terrifying all at once.

But Dean’s arm was around him, and he had his family.

“Good,” he said after letting out a deep breath. He looked back up at Dean. “I feel good.”

Dean grinned back at him, and pressed a hard kiss to his hairline. “Hey, after dinner, maybe wanna do some celebrating of our own?” He wriggled his brows suggestively.

Castiel put his arm around Dean’s lower back and wrapped his hand around his ribs beneath Dean’s blazer. “I want what you want.”

///

There was still some sawdust caked into the bar.

Dean licked his thumb and scrubbed the fresh wood, hoping to keep it as unmarred as he possibly could for as long as he possibly could. Harvelle’s Roadhouse was fully restored, rebuilt from the ground up with a few brand spanking new additions. They had a kitchen now, which was awesome, because that meant they could serve real food and Dean could eat as many free burgers as he wanted. There was a new, bigger back office. A new pool table, without rips. An awesome flat screen TV and actual speakers built into the ceiling where he could hook up his phone to play some tunes. The apartment upstairs still didn’t have a tenant, but it did have a few windows and a fire escape, and a pretty big bathroom with a shower that looked like it had excellent water pressure.

And the bar’s counter was unscratched—clean and pristine and not even a little sticky.

It was sweet! It still looked an old school rock and roll roadhouse, but with the added bonuses of the 21st Century.

Dean couldn’t wait for the grand opening next week.

When the speck of sawdust from construction was gone, he glanced up to where Ellen was talking with the contractor across the room. They were staring at the molding on the walls, and he was waving his hand back and forth as if explaining something to her. She was frowning, like molding actually mattered, but she nodded in reluctant acceptance. They shook hands, and the contractor collected his things to leave.

Ellen shoved her hands in her jean pockets as she sauntered over to the bar. “So? What do you think?”

Dean let out a laugh, giving the place another once-over. “Ellen, this is awesome. We shouldda renovated years ago!”

She leaned one elbow on the bar, and gave him a sour expression, even though she was secretly pleased. “Yeah, well, give it a week and this place’ll be scuffed up by bikers and liquored up frat boys who don’t know how to throw a punch.”

Dean raised his brows and nodded downward, unable to argue with that. He bent down to the crate at his feet and continued unpacking the rocks glasses inside.

“Yeah, well, I’ll just have to keep them in line,” he said.

“Yes, you will,” Ellen confirmed, voice tough like it was a threat. And then, “Hey, bring two of those glasses over here. Let’s break this place in.”

Dean didn’t need to be told twice. He brought up the glasses and set them down on the counter before walking towards the boxes of liquor at the end of the bar. Mostly everything was still in boxes and bags, waiting to be unpacked, but they had plenty of time for that. He came back with a bottle of whiskey and cracked it open to pour two fingers of amber liquor into the glasses.

“Cheers,” Ellen said, holding her glass aloft to clink it with his.

“ _L’chaim_ ,” Dean said, and knocked back his drink in one go. As he got back to unpacking, he felt Ellen watching him carefully. He knew better than to ask, though, because she’d speak up sooner or later.

She took a few more sips of her drink before she got around to saying, “So, Dean. Somethin’ I’ve been meaning to say to you.”

Maybe it was just a reflex, but his stomach churned. He grunted as he picked up a case from the floor and placed it carefully on the counter. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Ellen folded both arms on the bar and leaned into them. “My job as owner is mostly handling the money. You know, making sure everything’s paid off and every _one_ ’s getting paid. That, and the licenses and everything.”

Dean really didn’t know where she was going with this. “Yeah? So what?”

She let out a laugh. “Well, I’m hardly ever here, is what.”

“That’s not true!” Dean stopped what he was doing to look at her. “C’mon, you’re a great boss.”

“No, I don’t mean that,” she said. “I just mean . . .” She downed another sip of her drink. “Well, you’re here more than I am. And you know the place inside and out. Hell, you know the customers better’n I do. Maybe it’s time I handed over the reins.”

Dean was pretty sure he’d just imagined that. Hell, maybe this place was still burning and he was trapped inside his own head in some smoke-induced coma dream.

But this was real, and Alastair Jones was currently in a maximum-security prison awaiting trial and extradition in four different states. Good riddance.

“You want me to be manager?” he asked, just to be totally sure.

Ellen shrugged, and slid her palm across the wood as if she was checking for dust herself. “Sure. You basically run the place for me, anyway. Might as well make it official.”

He blanched, still not convinced she wasn’t pulling his leg. “Yeah, ran it into the ground.”

She straightened out and put her hands on her hips. “Exactly, so I know you won’t do it again. Besides, making you manager will be good for business now that you’re a hot-shot celebrity.”

Dean rolled his eyes and groaned.

“Jo told me you had—what was it now? Four thousand Twitter followers? Whatever that means in the grand scheme of things.”

“Don’t remind me,” Dean said as he busied himself unpacking. He barely logged into social media these days because of how bogged down his notifications were. He’d had to turn off alerts for them, there were so many. He was hoping his sudden popularity would die down soon. With any luck, he was just the flavor of the week.

Ellen’s laughter faded. And then, “So, what d’you say?”

What did he say? That was a stupid question. He loved that bar, and being a manager meant more money. He was totally on board with that.

He could picture it now. Dean Winchester: manager of a small business.

The churning in his gut turned into a flutter. He couldn’t wait to tell Sam and Cas.

“I’ll take it!”

The corners of her lips pulled up in satisfaction, and there was something close to pride in her eyes as she looked at him. “Good.”

And that was all. She turned and headed for the door, probably to lug some more boxes back inside from her truck. He swiveled around, watching her go. Then, all of a sudden, she stopped, like she’d just remembered something. “Oh and, Dean,” she said, turning around to give him a stern look. “Just make sure you check IDs before serving anyone this time around.”

He chuckled, shaking his head into it. Maybe she had a point, but he didn’t see the harm in serving some underage college student out for a night of fun. It just didn’t make sense to turn away someone looking for a beer and some friendly conversation while sitting at the bar.

After all, what was the worst that could happen?

///

Castiel hit a bump in the road, making the cab judder. In the backseat, Claire and Jack bounced slightly off their seats, and Claire complained, “That never happened in your _old_ car!”

He glanced at her in the rearview mirror, and couldn’t help the warmth that washed over him. Because, no. It hadn’t happened in the Lexus Michael had given him. The ride was much too smooth. Castiel looked back at the road, and continued to drive his truck towards the orphanage to drop the children off.

The tape deck was playing another mixtape that Dean had created for him, and the engine was grumbling, sounding the way it should. It was a new engine—or, new to the truck. The old one had been taken apart for scrap, but Dean recently fitted it with another one. It was unlikely that the clicking sound would ever happen again; but, if there were any other problems, at least Castiel knew a very good mechanic.

He pulled up onto the curb in front of the orphanage, and Claire barely waited for him to put it into park before she was opening the door and jumping out. She shouted goodbye over her shoulder, no doubt on her way to spend time with Kaia. Castiel let her go, and went to the back to lift Jack out of his seat. He was still too little to jump out of the tall truck on his own, but that time would come sooner than Castiel had anticipated. He was getting much bigger, and much heavier. Castiel couldn’t hold him for too long without his arms aching and Jack slipping, so he placed Jack’s feet on the ground and held his hand as they walked up towards the house together.

Jody and Donna were at the door, and Donna greeted them excitedly. She knelt down to be at Jack’s level as he told her about the garden snake he’d seen at the park that afternoon, and she seemed enthralled by the story. She grabbed his hand and pulled him gently inside, and Jack looked around and waved at Castiel. “Bye, Cas! See you tomorrow!”

Castiel smiled back, giving a small wave of his own. He wished he could spend more time with Jack, and with Claire. They were growing up quickly, Claire becoming stubborn and, despite herself, caring, like Dean; and Jack still had a sense of wonder about him that Castiel prayed wouldn’t fade with age. He wished he himself were just a little bit older, and that he could have a home with them and with Dean.

Maybe one day.

“So, tomorrow?” Jody asked, raising a brow in question.

“Oh, yes. If that’s alright? Dean wanted to take him fishing at the lake,” Castiel told her. He knew tomorrow wasn’t one his scheduled days with the children, but he hoped that wouldn’t matter.

She smiled warmly, and nodded. “I think that’s a great idea.”

Relieved, he wished her goodnight, and turned around to walk back to his car. But then she called after him, “Hey, wait, Castiel?” Her tone had changed a little, and he looked back in slight confusion. He pushed his glasses back up his nose.

She puffed out her cheeks and put her hands into the back pockets of her jeans. “You know, without Evangelist around to support us anymore, we’re gonna need to find new ways to get money,” she said, rocking back and forth on her heels as she spoke.

He looked down guilty. He knew what would happen when he turned his brothers in, but it was different now that it was real—now that two months had gone by and it was affecting the people he cared about. He wondered if she hated him for it.

“That’s gonna be a pretty full time job for me and Donna, and we already have our hands full with the kids,” she went on.

He looked back up, trying to express how sorry he was with his eyes. He didn’t really know what to say, so he remained silent, and wondered why she was telling him this.

She tipped her head to the side a little and said, “We could really use somebody to take care of our finances. You know—accounting, handling the books, all that fun stuff.”

He blinked. It sounded as if she were asking him a question, but he wouldn’t dare assume.

“You interested?”

At once, the entire world seemed to shift. Until that very moment, he still half-expected Evangelist to remain open, and that Michael and Raphael would return and Castiel would be expected to work there. He still kind of believed that nothing had changed, even though he rationally knew that everything was different. That his entire future was unknown.

Now, it really and truly hit him that his brothers were gone. Evangelist was gone. And he could do whatever he wanted.

And he wanted this.

“We couldn’t pay you much,” Jody explained. “But you’d get to spend some more time with the kids. That might be a perk, right?”

“Yes,” he agreed.

Her face scrunched a little in question. “Yes, it’s a perk, or yes, you’ll take the job?”

“Yes to both,” he said.

She smiled again, and pressed her shoulder against the door like she was relieved. “Great. Tell you what, why don’t you swing by a little earlier tomorrow and we’ll go over the details?”

“Thank you. I’ll see you tomorrow, Jody.”

With one last friendly goodbye, she stepped inside the house and shut the door behind her.

Castiel stood on the porch for a moment, completely frozen. He felt almost suspended, paralyzed and petrified by the realization that his life was in his own hands now, and he would have to make his own way.

It caused a pressure inside of him that rose up and broke through his lips in a huff of laughter. He walked back to his truck.

There was a dizzying rush in his chest, and he thought maybe it was excitement. Or fear. Or freedom.

///

“Damn it. Cas—stop going so fast! You’re gonna make me throw out my back.”

“Maybe if you kept up, Dean.”

“Just do it, huh?”

“Fine.”

“Okay, good. A little to the left—no, _my_ left.”

Castiel sighed, and readjusted the heavy cardboard box in his arms. It was filled with towels and linens, which really shouldn’t have weighed so much. He could hardly see Dean over the top of it. They were carrying it up the staircase together, Dean walking backwards as he leaned down at an awkward angle and really doing more to guide their steps, and Castiel carrying the brunt of the weight from the bottom.

It was the fifth box they’d carried up that day, and there were still a few more in the flatbed of Castiel’s truck. Two suitcases of clothes were in the backseat of the Impala, as well. Castiel really didn’t know he’d had so much stuff until he had to pack it up to move.

The apartment over Harvelle’s was vacant, and Ellen had offered it to Castiel earlier in the week. He wouldn’t be able to afford his old one on his salary at the orphanage, especially now that Balthazar was moving back to London to try his hand on the West End. Ellen had given him a good rate, and an even better one when he offered to help Dean with the bar free of charge.

After living in his old apartment for so many years, he thought he would be sad to leave it. It was a little bittersweet, admittedly, but that was just because he’d gotten accustomed to the place. It never felt like home, really, and it certainly never felt like his own. It was Michael’s, and it was a temporary place he was living in while in school, bound to give it up eventually.

But this place—this tiny apartment over the bar that still smelled vaguely of smoke in certain corners—was his. And he would make it home.

They managed to get the box up, and set it down in the doorway with the others. Castiel would move them once he started to unpack. Dean huffed, exhaling dramatically like he was out of breath.

“Can we take a break now, please? We’ve been at it all morning.” He went over and plopped down on the bed at the other end of the room, even though the mattress was bare and Castiel had no idea what box his duvet was in.

“We’re almost done,” Castiel told him, even though his lower back was starting to get sore. Maybe taking a breather was a good idea, but he didn’t know if he would get up again. He just wanted to collapse.

“Just gimme five minutes,” Dean whined, sounding halfway to annoyed.

“Fine.”

Castiel decided to keep moving, because no good would come from him stopping. He opened up one of the boxes, that one filled with dishes, and began bringing them over to the kitchen. He left them on the counter, because he’d have to figure out how to organize the cabinets later.

After a minute or so of silence, Dean glanced around the room appraisingly and said, “You know, this place could be kinda sweet if we set it up right. Ash kinda never did it, but we could. It’ll be an awesome hang out spot.” He teased, “Just don’t make me come up here with a noise complaint.”

Castiel went back to the box and shifted through it, starting to unpack the utensils. “Why? Will you evict me?”

Dean’s brows shot up to his hairline. “What, you think you’re special ‘cause you’re sleeping with your landlord?”

“It does help,” he answered distractedly. He didn’t know what to do with the utensils, either, so he just set them next to the plates. “But isn’t Ellen technically my landlord?”

He opened up another box—and found his duvet.

“Well, yeah, I _guess_ ,” Dean stammered. “But I’m the manager! Just don’t sleep with Ellen, alright?”

“The thought never crossed my mind.”

“Good, ‘cause I’d have to fight to win you back and she could kick my ass.”

Castiel ignored him as he bunched the duvet under his arm and fished out the pillows crushed into the bottom of the box.

Dean was quiet for another long minute, and Castiel could practically hear him thinking. After another second, Dean asked, “Hey, Cas? You know you don’t have to live here, right? You can just come stay with me and Sammy.”

Castiel knew that. All he ever had to do was ask, and he would be welcome. He’d certainly considered the possibility, but there would be plenty of time for him and Dean to live together in the future; besides, he assumed Dean would be there quite a lot anyway. As for right now, he needed his own place. He’d never been on his own before, and he wanted to experience that.

Dean chuckled a little to hide his anxiety, but Castiel heard it anyway. “I mean, you’re not scared we’re gonna break up, right?”

Castiel looked over at him quickly, nearly dropping the bundle in his arms in the process. Dean was staring back at him with a sheepish demeanor. “Of course, not,” Castiel said, wanting to put his mind at ease. “I would love to live with you, Dean. And we will. But your place is with Sam right now.”

He walked over, and tossed the pillows and duvet onto the bed beside Dean. “We have time,” he promised.

Dean seemed to relax a little. “Yeah, well, Sammy’s still headed to California in a couple years. Maybe that time’ll come sooner than we think.”

Castiel let himself picture it—Dean hauling boxes of his own up the stairs into the apartment, their clothes next to each other in the closet, waking up to sizzling bacon every morning, falling asleep to him every night.

“I’d like that.”

Dean ducked his head to hide his pleased expression. “Okay. Awesome,” he said, trying to play it cool. He teased, “If that’s what you want, Cas.”

Castiel regarded him for a moment, the broad mounds of his shoulders, the wide prairie of his chest, the lines and curves of his face as breathtaking as standing on the edge of a cliff. Castiel wanted to step off the side and fall, because he knew he’d be safe when he hit the ground. He would be able to rest, to shake off the wearisome path that he’d traversed to reach that point, to forget how he ached as he climbed the seemingly impossibly high mountain that had once been between them.

Dean was a valley, the one he could call home. Finally.

He leaned down quickly, cradling Dean’s jaw and bringing his face up so Castiel could kiss him deeply, savoring it. When he pulled away, Dean’s green eyes were a little dazed; but then, a grin spread across his lips, the tip of his tongue poking between his teeth, eyes shining as bright as the sun as those endearing crow's feet wrinkles scrunched around them.

Castiel said, “It is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed my very corny, chock-full-of-romance-tropes AU about these two idiots in love. Again, big thanks to [Dee](https://lovercas.tumblr.com/) for beta'ing!
> 
> If you want to chat on [tumblr](https://dochollidayed.tumblr.com/), I'd love to hear from you!
> 
> And here's the [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2ZfOm3EJa0Mx1MG2WCi2d1) I made for this fic.
> 
> Thanks!


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